


Make the yuletide gay

by Eturni



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Chapter 15 went in a weird direction, Drinking, Fluff, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Other, Pining, Underage Drinking, check chapter notes for anything of note, history through the lens of wikipedia, nonbinary warlock, world midwinter traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 13:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 42,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eturni/pseuds/Eturni
Summary: From Drawlight's advent calendar prompt challenge available on TumblrA full month of seasonal prompts that will hopefully be mostly fluffy if my terrible mind doesn't work against me.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 115
Kudos: 114





	1. Mistletoe

It was one of those wonderful little things that persisted throughout the human psyche and made it through almost every iteration of their celebrations.

Evergreens. In this case, specifically, mistletoe.

Aziraphale very fondly remembered the first time Crowley had sauntered into his living quarters in Rome around the early 4th century and offered up a woven mistletoe wreath. Ostensibly, it had been to go with the other little evergreens up for the solstice.

Aziraphale, naturally, had baulked at the idea at first given the berry’s links to fertility and the like.

“It’s traditional for Saturnalia.” Crowley had argued, gamely.

“And I do not pray to Saturn.”

“No, but you do the ‘looking human’ bit of it.” Crowley rolled his eyes theatrically. Not that it could be seen behind his new sunglasses and at that point in time the demon hadn’t quite got the hang of exaggerating his body language to make up for it.

Then he’d straightened up, stilled, and Aziraphale didn’t need to hear the softness in his voice to understand that this was important to him as he raised the woven wreath of plant again. “Besides, it’s not just all that fertility bollocks. It’s peace, like a ceasefire or- or a parley, right? Means a temporary truce, just over the season, you see? Hang this up, certain demon might know that there was a cease fire. Might know to bring wine instead of wiles when he turned up.” He’d shrugged, attempting for nonchalant but for the slight smirk curling at the edge of his lips and the anxious tension across his shoulders.

Aziraphale had snatched the wreath from Crowley and looked down at it with far more theatrical horror than was frankly warranted “You and I are enemies, Crowley. There is no cease fire where the forces of heaven are concerned.” He had of course run Crowley out of there in short order

And found his anxious hands wringing their way around the wreath he had never given back.

It had taken him three days to pluck up the courage to place the wreath in his doorway and as Crowley had suggested it did seem to be well received by those he counted among his neighbours at the time.

It also led Crowley back to his temporary home less than a week following. They spent most of the night together, enjoying good wine and better company. Surprisingly enough talking a fair bit about Jesus. Crowley had known more of the boy than he’d dared to let on during… the rather grizzly events of the end of his life. Apparently with them now looking into re-purposing the solstice for a birthday celebration Crowley’s feelings about the matter had been jangled terribly and he’d needed someone to talk to.

That someone, behind a doorway protected by the promise of mistletoe, had been Aziraphale. He found himself with the demon half sprawled across his lap, open and vulnerable as he rambled on with Aziraphale’s fascinated fingers curling and brushing through his hair.

It was of course the worst kind of temptation entirely because Crowley had no clue he was doing anything at all; laying himself out bare in a way that had made Aziraphale’s heart twist and ache for more.

After that, any year that Crowley was in the area he would invariably turn up with some sort of mistletoe and use it to wheedle his way into a truce that needed less and less convincing each time. There were plenty of years that Crowley was decidedly _not_ nearby and during those years Aziraphale often found himself putting up mistletoe regardless.

Just in case, he always thought. He dared not think _further_ than that. To the: in case of what? In case Crowley comes into the area and doubts his welcome. In case having it there somehow calls him nearer if he isn’t too far. All things that Aziraphale couldn’t afford to think; and therefore things that he most assuredly Did Not think.

Aziraphale watched traditions gain and lose popularity and whilst mistletoe certainly did do that it never entirely fell out of favour. The magic of evergreens too ingrained in the human psyche. Naturally none of that anything to do with any divine or demonic intervention.

When Crowley turned up to the bookshop with a sprig of mistletoe the year of the failed Armageddon, Aziraphale had to admit he was a little perplexed.

“I thought… Well, we’re working on it just being our side, isn’t that right my dear?” He asked, no longer enjoying the idea of a temporary ceasefire in the same way he had previously.

The way Crowley’s smile softened with a mixture of delight and surprise made something inside Aziraphale glow up and he had to fight to avoid a small wiggle at the sight. He settled instead for letting the delight wiggle inside of him and thinking what a wonderful gift it was to see softness in Crowley.

“Yeah, guess it is.” Crowley agreed, so gentle as to almost be reverent but for the hint of _something_ in his voice.

When he moved closer Aziraphale fought the urge to take a step back and instead levelled his gaze up at the suddenly playful demon. “Still, all this time, a truce isn’t the only tradition any more. Could take on one of the others, if you like.” Crowley suggested, already reaching to pluck one of the berries from the sprig he held.

Aziraphale didn’t see where it went, focused as he was on the way that Crowley’s eyes flickered down to his lips. On the fact that Crowley was so close that he could _see that_ in his eyes despite the sunglasses. He held his breath as the demon leaned in close.

And left the faintest of soft, warm brushes of lips against his cheek.

When the demon pulled back Aziraphale was still holding his breath waiting for more despite the fact that Crowley’s eyes were wide and worried, tension clear in his shoulders.

As though he already thought he had moved too fast. Ah.

Aziraphale nodded and almost imperceptibly straightened himself up, gathering his courage as he reached out and plucked another of the berries, discarding it away thoughtlessly as he leaned in to press his lips fully against Crowley’s, feeling his heart swell at the way the other leaned in and sunk in and _gave in_ immediately to the kiss.

“Yes.” He agreed when he finally pulled back, completely unable to do anything to reign in the grin on his face. “Though, perhaps, like the truce it needn’t be entirely constrained by the holidays?”

The answering smile he received was something more for Aziraphale to catalogue away into his fondest memories.


	2. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For day 2 - Snow  
Crowley is being hunted through the snow of the Schwarzwald by an ethereal being who has not forgotten how to be a warrior.

Crowley’s hands trembled around the ball of near-ice he had been pressing in his hands for the last hour or so. He was thankful for his corporation not needing oxygen as he’d stopped breathing entirely; too aware of the sound and sight of his breath on the air to let it continue.

The Scwartzwald was dark even at the best of times. Midwinter, with a blanket of snow pressing the canopy and the same covering the ground to calf height in some places, it was almost dark as pitch without a lantern to lead the way. Not to mention how the press of the snow muted the usual lively sounds of the forest and made every crunch of his movements gunshot sharp.

It was another reason Crowley was glad to not be a mere human. Unfortunately his pursuer wasn’t human either. Crowley pressed himself further against the tree, eyes closed and feeling the rough bark at his back, digging in between his shoulder blades and providing the reassurance of protection on one side.

He could feel his pursuer close. The angelic aura was almost hot on his radar in the midst of the frozen, blanketed forest.

He fought to keep his own demonic signature as quiet and dull as possible, his dark tunic wrapped up and covering tell-tale pale skin, but he knew from the movement around him: a slow, predatory circle, that he was no more hidden than the other.

He half hoped that they were at an impasse – neither wanting to move closer for the knowledge that the other was just as alert to their presence. Of course an impasse was not the way that either of them could work. Someone must win this.

Crowley looked down contemplatively to the ball of ice in his quickly numbing fingers. To throw it would give himself away, even as an attempt at the distraction. He did anyway, the dead stillness needing to be broken by _something_. The ball hit a nearby tree, the crack of wood stark in the still of the forest.

Crowley was moving, crouching low and grasping at the snow beneath him to form another ball. The crack did not echo; absorbed by the soft white beneath, around and above them. Instead there was only the crunch of his too-loud footsteps through the forest and Crowley could feel the thrill of fear rush through him as the angelic aura suddenly moved. Towards him. Too quickly. Far too much.

He could feel his pupils narrowing, twisting to throw behind him at the feeling of someone so close. Then a short, dull pain against his gut; breath punched out of him as the cold thrust into his bones. Cold curled around him as Crowley hit the snow.

Then a hand, a softly smiling face. “It seems the victory is mine, dear boy. Good triumphing over evil, as it always will.” Aziraphale smirked, the bastard.

“Alright, alright.” Crowley shivered as he was pulled from the snow, relishing the gentle warmth of the angel’s flesh against his. “Serves me right for betting a baumkuchen, that’s what that is.” He grumbled. Still, he was smiling as Aziraphale carefully, almost tenderly, carefully brushed the snow from his coat.

Aziraphale smiled warmly, a thing that made Crowley’s unnecessary heart trip in his chest, even as he carelessly threw a burst of divine energy behind him. It now marked the place where a demon had fallen and been smitten, just in case of any questions later.

_ And, oh, how Crowley was smitten._

He didn’t dare reach out for Aziraphale’s hand like he wanted to but he stayed perhaps a little too close as he fell into step beside the angel.

“We should get some hot cocoa too. I’ve heard that they have a kind of cherry liqueur from the area that goes simply _marvellously_ in cocoa.” Aziraphale hummed, eyes already half rolled back at the thought of the taste. Crowley, as a demon, was almost obligated to let himself be pulled along to try some.


	3. Nutcracker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale attend one of the first showings of The Nutcracker at the Marinksy Theatre and spend about as much time staring at each other as they do at the performance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's where I vigorously abuse the "history through wikipedia" tag. I have done some research where I can but this is a daily challenge and so it's only skin deep. Please forgive inaccuracies where you find them.

Aziraphale was nervously pulling at the legs of his trousers to flatten the deep creases when he felt demonic energy swelling at the edges of his periphery. He carefully continued to look forward as though he hadn’t felt anything.

Below the decent-sized box the orchestra of the Marinsky theatre was warming up and the heavy stage curtain, with its faux drapery and golden and purple accents, remained steadfastly in place.

Aziraphale let out a slow, steadying breath and leaned forward a little, hands gripping at the ledge in front of him with nerves that he new he shouldn’t necessarily feel. They’d met in theatres and restaurants plenty across the course of their acquaintanceship and, latterly, the Arrangement.

The issue was, of course, that this time of year was touted as Gabriel’s _big day_ and as such the archangel had a habit of popping in to visit earth a little more. Naturally never giving anything that would be considered adequate notice. It always made him nervous to meet with Crowley. Yet never enough to completely deny the opportunity when it was presented as part of their Arrangement, though he did always provide token refusals and caution as was only right.

It was Crowley who had come up with the compromise of attending separately but in the same spaces. Just enough plausible deniability. They were there anyway and certainly it wouldn’t do to battle and smite a demon in such a crowded place.

He still found that he couldn’t relax properly until the house lights dimmed and the stage curtain started to rise. Right on time the demonic presence came closer. There was the press of power as he passed into the box, completely disinterested in the others, and slid into the seat next to Aziraphale without looking at him just as the last strains of tuning notes faded into silence.

Aziraphale knew without looking that the use of power had been to place a sprig of mistletoe over the entrance as he passed by. A cease fire while ever he was here.

For the first half hour or so Crowley sat comfortably quiet next to the angel and allowed a small portion of his interest to the ballet in front of him. One with a weird amount of children on stage, if you asked him, but then he didn’t care much and it might even be in fashion for the blasted things. Most of his attention was on the angel at his side anyway, and Aziraphale did seem at least a little taken by the show.

Aziraphale, he had found across the years, was much more interesting to watch than almost any play, drama, ballet, opera or otherwise that the humans could hope to come up with.

So Crowley spent his time vaguely listening to the swells of the music and very gradually shifting himself closer to the angel until he could feel the heat of the other pressed against his entire thigh and partially against his arm. Until he could see the slight shift in Aziraphale’s expressions that would tell him whether he was enjoying the performance… and how aware he was of Crowley’s attentions.

The answer to both was not nearly enough.

He leaned in until the stiffening of Aziraphale’s posture told him that he had the other’s attentions. “Not your cup of tea, angel? Could always just get straight to business.”

Aziraphale flushed and did his best to shake off his initial thoughts at those words. He paused and considered. It would mean less time together. There would be no excuse to go for a meal or drinks together afterwards, though that may be for the best with the spectre of Gabriel looming over his days. After a moment he shook his head mulishly. “I want to give it a chance. Yes, there have been some… mixed feelings… but one detractor’s best attempt at slating the poor prima was over her _corpulence_ and I do not trust an opinion with so little standing behind it.” He muttered fussily. Admittedly he had yet to… actually _see_ the prima at this point and had to wonder when he would get to see her dancing.

“Well then, I guess we should stick around for the rest.” He shrugged, using the movement to gently drape an arm across the back of Aziraphale’s chair, now looking resolutely ahead as though to deny that he had done anything at all. “Still, all a bit light and airy for Hoffman’s stuff isn’t it?”

Aziraphale’s head briefly turned to Crowley, a flicker of surprise across his features. “You’ve read- I mean, we shouldn’t be talking. There’s a performance happening.”

“Don’t worry angel, I’ve made sure no one will hear us.” Crowley’s words whispered hot across the shell of his ear, making him shiver and flush at the same time at hos close the demon suddenly was to him.

He pulled back and did his best to glower at the demon while a faint dusting of red lingered on his cheeks. “Well, why on _earth_ would you need to be so close just to-”

“Because everyone else in the box still expects us to be looking forward and enjoying this frankly ballet-light ballet.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips at the demon’s frankly smug look and turned back to the performance, willing his body not to shiver at the phantom memory of breath across his ear and neck. He attempted to stay invested in Clara and the nutcracker but found his attention often wandering back to Crowley.

The moment the lights went up to signal the end of the first act after the waltz of the snowflakes he shifted in his seat to level a glower at the demon that he didn’t truly feel. “Must you be so distracting?”

Crowley’s surprise gave way very quickly to the kind of fond smugness that made Aziraphale want to break ties with the other altogether and flee to somewhere he could never find him again. It made him want for completely preposterous, impossible things.

“Now don’t you dare look so pleased with yourself. What is it you wanted with me anyway? We may as well do this now.” He demanded, suddenly thinking that drinks would not be a good idea if Crowley was going to keep looking at him like that.

The demon’s face shifted to something carefully neutral for a moment in a way that made Aziraphale’s stomach go cold. Then he was shrugging and lounging back and Aziraphale wishes he could see the other’s eyes to gauge what was truly going on behind them. “You’re here trying to get the Czar to do something about the famine, right?” He asked, barely waiting for the slight nod of acknowledgement. “I’m here to stir up the revolts, push the Marxism.” He spread his fingers, palms turning in supplication as he continued to lean back, rail thin body half contorting over his chair and showing off a frankly obscene amount of his body as the fabric clung tight against him.

Aziraphale looked away and very strongly considered that the second act should be starting again. Soon. “So we both step back, you go somewhere less damnably cold, I at least try to help those poor starving people, and we let this play out?”

Crowley nodded slowly, pushing at his glasses as though to check that they were fully secured. “Pretty much.”

The angel gave Crowley a measured look, as best he could while his traitorous eyes wanted to travel the planes of his chest and down lower to where the fabric strained across his crotch. “Very well. It seems we _are_ cancelling each other out after all.

Crowley held out his hand and almost the moment Aziraphale took it to shake on their agreement the house lights went down again, music building as Aziraphale’s skin tingled where he touched Crowley. He looked around for a moment in confusion at how this had all happened so quickly. The other patrons had returned without his notice. Though Crowley did always somehow have that way of narrowing the world down to just the two of them when they were together.

All the better that they don’t spend more time together than absolutely necessary.

He was trying to focus on the ballet; the prima ballerina finally making her appearance and actually proving her technical aptitude, when Crowley straightened at his side.

“Oh wait I know this one! Brought in that celesta thing for this one, didn’t he?” Crowley was already pulling away and actually looking over the edge of the box. Even if he couldn’t see it Aziraphale could perfectly imagine the unique light that came into Crowley’s serpentine eyes when something captured his attention this way.

As Aziraphale looked over he caught the softest of smiles on Crowley’s lips as the other leaned in; head on hands, elbows on ledge in the most improper behaviour for the royal theatre. The angel had to look away immediately, a feeling swelling in his chest that he was all too glad demons could not sense.

“Drinks after this?” He found himself asking before he even realised it was his own voice speaking the words.

Crowley’s smile only widened, briefly looking back towards him with a “Sure, angel.” Before he looked back, trying to catch a glimpse of player and instrument in the orchestra. It turned out it was Aziraphale’s turn to watch the demon more than the performance in the second act.


	4. Cranberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale accidentally bumps into Crowley having gone to America after world war 2 and the demon introduces him to the popularity of cranberries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very aware that everything so far has been pretty euro-centric and I hope this doesn't come off as ignoring the long history of America before the colonies.
> 
> I had a vague idea of something else that I had the bones of an outline for but there's only so much research you can do in one day for a daily challenge. A couple of friends very gently and lovingly reminded me that it was not my culture and not my story to tell and would need a lot more sensitive work and checking than could be afforded in a single day. So instead it's fairly modern white America.

It was 1945, the war was over, and Aziraphale had promptly <strike>fled</strike> relocated across the pond. Officially to see what support the Americas needed but more honestly so he wouldn’t spend as much time thinking about a certain church and a certain rescue and all that it had stirred up in him. The bracing cold that came to northern America certainly helped. As did the mix of relief and cheer and lingering but untethered pain that came of the first Christmas following the war.

It was with no small amount of dismay(and no small measure of hopeful affection) that he walked into the Amrheins and spotted a very well dressed man with flame bright hair already propping up the old bar.

He was about to turn, to leave, anything when Crowley seemed to become aware of his presence and turned, a smile twitching onto his face that was all the more precious for how rarely Crowley smiled at anyone. For how tenuous their not-friendship was after the holy water incident.

“’Ziraphale! C’mere. One on me, I think. Cape Cod for the new gent, if you will.” Crowley grinned at the bartender with the wink implied well enough that the man couldn’t miss it even beyond Crowley’s dark glasses.

The man pursed his lips but said nothing as he went to make the drink. Plenty of people in high spirits these days.

Aziraphale shook his head, worrying his mittened hands over each other. “Oh, I’m sure I couldn’t dear boy. Work to do and all that. Probably shouldn’t stick around too long. Just came to… uh…” Aziraphale cast about for an excuse that would give him opportunity to take his leave soon. Some reason to be in and out quickly. “Quick blessing for the proprietor, you see. One and done, as it were.”

Crowley’s jaw tightened and he looked down into his half-full glass with a grimace like it had suddenly gone sour on him. “Right. I see.” He nodded, softly enough that no human ear would pick it up and forlorn enough that Aziraphale felt it like a blow to the gut. “Just, traditional fruit, isn’t it? Pretty big n cranberries round here. Good to get to know the area if you’ll be around for a while.” He wheedled with the air of a demon who already had his answer but couldn’t quite tamp down the natural urge to tempt.

_Couldn’t quite crush down the last of the ever-present hope where Aziraphale was concerned._

“Hm? Cranberries you say? Yes, I have heard they’re popular in these parts. I suppose… it couldn’t hurt too much to say just a short while.” He regretted it instantly, heart twisting in a complicated and elated flutter, when Crowley immediately straightened up and looked at him once again at the words.

“And the snow’s starting to come down now.” Crowley agreed pointedly, already brightening as he looked out at where it was, indeed, beginning to snow despite the evening being fairly crisp with clear skies moments before. “Best wait until it stops.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, fighting the affectionate smile that wanted to creep up as he carefully removed his tartan scarf and mittens. He slid into the seat next to Crowley just as a glass of thinly red liquid was set down in front of him. Nowhere near as dark as a good wine, nowhere near as bright and present as Crowley’s hair, but red of it’s own kind.

He took a sip and grimaced in surprise at the hit of alcohol and tartness of the juice. “Well that’s certainly… an experience.” He frowned, carefully taking another sip as he tried to decide if he could like the drink or if it was all a little _much._

Crowley found himself with an elbow on the bar leaning in slightly to watch the changes across Aziraphale’s face as he waited on the other’s verdict. Finally the angel gave a slight nod and raised his glass in a toast which Crowley mirrored before taking another few sips of the drink, letting the new taste wash across his tongue and categorising it for later.

As the glass came down Crowley’s eyes lingered on Aziraphale’s lips, glistening in the low light from the remnants of the drink and a hint more red from the juice. The slightest of changes, really. Completely negligible to anyone who hadn’t spent almost six millennia as a student of smiling lips, bright eyes, soft curves and warm light.

As it was, the faint sheen of liquid slightly darkening the angel’s lower lip caught and held his attention as a singular, teasing focal point.

His line of sight was cut off when Aziraphale distractedly brought fingers up to press self-consciously against his lips. The soft “Oh” of understanding followed by a darkened-pink tongue darting out to lap up the moisture. It simultaneously left Crowley’s chest feeling hollow and his trousers decidedly _not._

“You should see about Christmas dinners here while you’re at it. Use the stuff in sauces. S’posed to be more thanksgiving but they’re g’ving it a try.” Crowley reached out for anything to say, voice thankfully unwavering.

“Well, perhaps. I don’t exactly know anyone here well. No one but you, of course, dear boy. And I hardly think that we’d be dining together for the holidays.” He looked down thoughtfully at his own glass, not wanting to be seen. Not wanting to risk that Crowley would understand just how much he would like that. It wasn’t a possibility anyway.

“Mmm, yeah, no, I guess not so much.” Crowley offered rather unhelpfully. “Too bad though.” He admitted, quietly enough that even Aziraphale struggled to catch the words. Wasn’t certain if he had heard right

He took another couple of anxious sips of his drink this time focusing on the burn of the alcohol as it went down and faintly wishing that it was easier to get his corporation drunk. It didn’t even make the edges of his worry fuzzy.

When he set the glass down he suddenly found that Crowley was closer than expected and leaning in still. It was slow. Measured. The look in his eyes behind the dark of his glasses made Aziraphale’s breath hitch uncertainly. His tongue darted out to lick his lips nervously just as Crowley’s hand came up, thumb brushing across his lower lip where Aziraphale could taste lingering cranberry and, very suddenly, the warm skin of Crowley’s thumb.

The angel swallowed convulsively, eyes wide but finding himself unable to tear them away from Crowley’s. His jaw worked for a couple of seconds, lips brushing against the other’s digit as he tried to think of something to say, tried to remember how his corporation was supposed to breathe.

Crowley shuddered at the further brush of soft lips and seemed to very suddenly snap to his senses despite the haze still lingering in his eyes. “I… sorry angel. Dunno wha- yeah. Er… See you ‘round eh?” He offered, words tripping over themselves to get out as he pressed a handful of dollars down onto the bar and fled into the snowdrift outside, leaving Aziraphale feeling strangely bereft and absently licking at the lingering tastes on his lips.


	5. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonfires are being lit to encourage peace, prosperity, wealth and green in the year following the longest night. A certain angel and demon find themselves at the same midwinter celebration with the locals asking Crowley some very pointed questions about hs feelings towards Aziraphale.

The sacred spaces had been cleared away early in the morning and the children had spent the day in between gathering up pine needles and twigs for towering bonfires and nervously preparing for their performances later in the day. Crowley had spent a decent amount of time slipping an extra few treats to the most mischievous of them as they rushed between jobs.

More than once he’d caught the angel smiling at him in that knowing way from where the other was speaking in low tones with the elders about moving where they stored their meat over the winter months. Just for this year, mind.

When he’s already smiling from encouraging chaos in children Crowley can’t seem to hold Aziraphale’s gaze and frequently found himself looking away first, desperate to find something else to do to occupy him.

“Are you dancing?”

He gives an array of excuses throughout the day of the main celebration, not least of which having two left feet (the phrase wasn’t necessarily one that translated well, but luckily enochian had an aptitude for conveying feeling and meaning over literal translation).

There are pauses, some mild confusion. Always the very gentle, pointed questions. He was wearing very feminine clothing today of all days. Very _traditional_ clothing.

It was true. Crowley had been spending time in the Kailash community and knew things well enough. Enough to be welcomed into the celebrations, if not the more sacred aspects. He’d been there long enough to pick up a few items of traditional dress; the bright colours not usually his style but there was enough black in the dress. And the brightness of the red sash, tassels and beautiful hemming was good for celebrating the longest night. Joy and colour against the darkness.

So maybe Crowley’s a little defensive. So what if he is? A few of the lads in the village are today and he looks pretty good in it.

Crowley finds out that this is the whole point of the questions. Changing clothes is part of the dancing. It’s part of the traditions at Chawmoss for the young men and women of the village to declare their feelings to each other, their intent to marry.

There are more pointed looks to Aziraphale. They hadn’t arrived together but they obviously know one another. They’re obviously _fond._ Crowley shakes his head, dances around the unanswered questions as the bonfires start to be lit, considers changing his clothes.

Instead he tries (and fails) to stop looking at Aziraphale so often. His heart hammers as the wooden piles go up in flames in defiance of the cold and the oncoming dark. The sun hangs low in the sky and the bonfires send up clouds of smoke. Crowley wishes that he could will that smoke to obscure his feelings as well as they try to obscure the sky.

_Is it that obvious? Do you see it too?_

He finds himself staring at Aziraphale through the dancing flames and the curling smoke and drags his eyes away again. Lets himself be led away by the hand to ‘help’ judging who among the children had made the highest flames, the most smoke and therefore invited in the most peace, love and greenery in the year to come. Aziraphale will see to all of that regardless, he knows, as long as his miracle budget stretches.

“You didn’t join with the dancing? The youngsters wouldn’t have minded, you know.” Once it’s dark and they’re gathered up against the warmth of the fires one of the interested (nosey) elders finally settles herself in next to Crowley.

“No.” He frowns with a shake of his had, glad of the glasses to hide his traitorous eyes as he watches the children of the village pull Aziraphale around, each proudly showing off their bonfires. Each claiming that theirs is enough to blot the stars out of the sky.

The flickering light of the flames play across Aziraphale’s face; ghosting across the soft curves of his face and casting deep shadows into the familiar lines formed where that easy smile presses the edges.

Aziraphale doesn’t look divine or ethereal like this. He looks real. The glow isn’t some sacred inner workings but the warm glow of a fire in winter and the care in his eyes isn’t copy-pasted angelic standard but true affection for the people he’s with. It’s so much more beautiful than anything ethereal could be.

Makes him seem almost close enough that Crowley could bridge the gap between them.

It’s a lie. One which Aziraphale will insist on reminding him of if he dares to get close. Underneath is pure angel; the light of stars that Crowley can no longer hold and fuss over and carefully hang through the firmament. Crowley’s being now is hellfire. Aziraphale’s is starfire; angelic flame regardless of the blade he’d given away. The bonfire between them was not a middle ground that Aziraphale would willingly meet him at.

“Never him. He was never mine to dance with.” He shakes his head again, eyes darting away from a face that was suddenly too painful to stare at for any longer.

The elder put her hand on Crowley’s arm in a universal gesture that indicated she knew something he was far too young to figure out and clucked her tongue in pity. “You’ll see about that yet.” She nods solemnly before shuffling closer to the fire herself.

When Aziraphale finally gets around to finding Crowley he’s surprised by the other’s seemingly dour mood. “Wonderful, don’t you think? All of the getting together and sharing? Holding on to each other whilst the winter hits them hardest.”

“Dunno, more here for the...” He paused. There really isn’t a lot of sin going on here at all, at least not in any way that didn’t depend on an organised religion declaring it so. “fire and the clothes. All a bit technicolour, isn’t it.” He flashes a grin that he knows is weak but he hopes he can get away with in the dark.

Aziraphale moved to clasp his hands in front of him and sniffed haughtily. “Well _I_ think the calls for love and prosperity in the next year are quite lovely.”

“Yeah, I know you’ll take care of them, angel. Can’t let all that work go to waste, right?” He smiles over to Aziraphale through the slightest of catches in his voice. He sees the faint glow from the fire and this time they’re not close enough to the flames for Crowley to believe anything but that some of that light is coming from inside of the other. 

He looks away and into the dancing of the flames the second Aziraphale’s eyes start to shift towards him, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “To a prosperous new year.” He mutters thickly.


	6. Sleigh Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day six's prompt featuring sleigh bells. Aziraphale goes to Crowley's flat and attempts to figure out what the racket inside was about. As it turns out some demons will never stop being just a little bit kind for children.  
Mentions, but no descriptions, of sick kids.

Four months after the world didn’t end a certain angel and demon were still figuring out what it truly meant to be freelance agents on their own side. They’d been spending enough time together, however, that Aziraphale thought nothing of paying the other an impromptu visit at his Mayfair flat.

He stopped at the door with his hand raised to knock, straining to listen as he thought he heard some sort of commotion inside. Something cold and hard settled in his stomach and through his muscles as he considered if hell had come back for the other. Instead the sound resolved itself into something familiar. If not too familiar. A bag of coppers? Cutlery being spilled across a floor? Bells?

He knocked and the sound abruptly stopped. Then, just as abruptly, jangled in a panicked non-rhythm before going entirely quiet again.

When the demon answered the door Aziraphale’s anxiety was mollified to see not a hair out of place. Confusion and a moue of annoyance tugged at Crowley’s lips briefly before he took in the wine in Aziraphale’s hand and his expression smoothed out a little.

“Not like you to come up here. Everything alright?” He asked, moving just far enough aside to let Aziraphale pass, their bodies close enough to catch the heat from the angel as he moved past.

“Absolutely tickety-boo, dear boy. I just thought it would do for me to come here every once in a while. I do appreciate you being in the shop, of course, but I also thought that I should make the effort, as it were, to see you too.”

Crowley blinked and sidled his way around the angel in his usual restless orbit. “Right.” He agreed softly, carefully plucking the bottle from the other’s hands. “Wouldn’t hurt I guess. I like the shop though. Don’t mind coming to you.” He stressed, a little worried despite the assurance that Aziraphale was hoping to start clearing his demonic influence from the shop. Bizarre thought, really. The angel hadn’t fussed much at all in the last 100 years even while he had a decent chance of Crowley being caught physically _in_ the shop. With no bosses and no sides it wouldn’t make sense to start taking exception to it now.

“Well I see.” Aziraphale smiled down at his hands with something that might have been tender if Crowley could see it and he found the worry loosening its fingers in his chest. “That’s quite… Well, what I mean to say of course is that you’re welcome any time you like.” Aziraphale offered, the faintest rush of blood in his ears making his words seem even quieter than they were.

He cleared his throat, trying to get some distance from the turn the conversation had taken. “I do wonder though… What was that sound earlier? When I first came to the door there was quite the commotion going on.”

“Unh, ng, it’s, ah… I mean nothing much.” Crowley shrugged, moving off into the kitchen to get a couple of glasses and trying not to wilt when Aziraphale followed him. “Nothing you need to worry about.” He hedged, starting to circle again as he poured out the glasses, hoping to take the angel’s attention away from the topic.

“I thought that hell’s forces had come back for you.” Aziraphale muttered almost sullenly. If it was a little bit exaggerated it at least did the job of getting the conversation back in his corner.

“Sounded that bad, huh?” Crowley seemed to consider this. “Supposed to sound right but I might get away with painful and ear splitting. Demonic and all that.”

“Honestly now Crowley, what on earth is going on? You know it’s not my job to thwart you any more. And that… I trust how you sow your wiles.”

Crowley was so taken aback by the sudden change of _”Your demonic doing I presume.”_ about any horrific event that for a moment he didn’t think to lie.

“Actually it’s not… might have got roped into a gig. At St Ormond’s Street. With the Santa stuff. Supposed to ring him in and all that. I mean they’re just bloody bells, how hard could it be?” He glowers towards the Mona Lisa as though she (or whatever was behind her) had personally betrayed him. 

The next moment a long leather strap dotted with sleigh bells was in Crowley’s hands and he gave it an accusatory shake. It was obviously supposed to be from a harness to hold reindeer in like and Aziraphale couldn’t help but think that one of the simpler hand held things would have been easier.

“How _exactly_ did you get ‘roped into’ announcing Santa at Great Ormond’s Street?”

“One of the kids saw my eyes. Told him I was one of the elves for kids with bad spelling that sent their list to Satan instead of Santa.” He gave the string of bells another couple of absent shakes. “Kids seemed pretty taken with it so they asked me to join in with the yearly visit. Thought, may as well right? Encourage kids to be good for Satan. Seems about right for whatever it is we do now.”

He looked up expecting an exasperated half-glare or conflicted purse of the lips. He did not expect Aziraphale to be giving him one of those soft looks, the telltale sheen of moisture just at the edges of his eyes. 

“And how often do you go there, my dear boy?”

“What? I- every so often I guess? Sick kids, lotta stress. You only ever have to make small things go wrong before the adults start turning on each other.” He snapped back, suddenly back to defending his demonic position even though neither of them were quite one side or the other any longer.

Aziraphale shook his head with a smile that was far too knowing. “So you’re one of Santa’s elves?”

“Satan’s elves. Was thinking about bringing a hell hound instead of a reindeer but I don’t reckon they’d be big on letting me have one on loan again. Now I suggest you stop smiling before I tell them I found a better actual Santa.”

“And see you dressed up making children smile? Was that supposed to be a threat, my dear?”

“Surrounded by sick kids with no miracle budget to do anything about it might be.” Crowley muttered somewhere between threatening and bitter as he sipped at his wine.

Aziraphale decided that he could talk to Crowley later about his experiments with exactly how much divine power he could access. For now there were a few low level miracles he could do for at least low pain Christmases and movements towards recovery. “I see. Very demonic indeed. Stressful time and adding Satan worshipping children into the mix for their responsible adults. I must say, I find that sufficiently evil that I may have to try a small thwarting anyway. You said they may need a Santa?” he asked, eyebrow arched high.

“Angel there’s really no need.” He sighed with a shake of his head.

“Well on the contrary it seems there’s some dark wiles to be thwarted, and some, if I may say, alarmingly attractive elves with less than stellar bell ringing talent. I think it’s something I should see to.” The angel nodded firmly, looking down at his own hands gripping the material of his trousers over his thighs like a lifeline.

Crowley almost choked on his next mouthful of wine and set it aside with a clink that almost made Aziraphale flinch it was so stark in the sudden quiet. “I can ring bells just bloody fine.” Crowley argued, though he sounded as though he’d just had the breath punched out of him.

This was something he could focus on. Not the rest. That was too raw and open and not at all certain.

Aziraphale smiled soft and uncertain from his seat and tried to tell himself that it was fine. What kind of a response did he expect anyway? “We shall only see on the day, I suppose.” He offered with only a little disappointment. It was rather overshadowed by his feelings about how sweet a certain demon could be for those who didn’t fall under his remit of “fair game to tempt”.


	7. Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring vague mentions of a druidic Yule but mostly Aziraphale and Crowley getting close around the fire and pretending to be drunk enough for plausible deniability.

Aziraphale rested where he was, brain only half as fogged by the mead as he let on. He could hear the soft pops of the wood splintering in the fire behind and very distantly something that could be instruments or voices but that disappeared the moment the wind changed and carried the faint sounds away.

The unnecessary breathing of the demon beside him barely broke the stillness of the night.

There was dancing going on elsewhere. It was the deepest part of the night and the locals were up and celebrating and would be until they successfully welcomed the sun back after the longest night. Aziraphale had been fairly comfortable, if entirely bemused, being led through a few simple movements before abruptly completely losing his rhythm the moment he wasn’t being led along. It hadn’t seemed to dampen anyone’s spirits and at the very least he’d been relinquished to continue watching from the sidelines.

It had naturally been that moment that he’d spotted Crowley stumbling his way away from the main event and down to one of the smaller fires at the base of the hill.

“Where on earth are you going dear boy? I’d have assumed with all the revelry and opportunity to tempt you’d have been working overtime tonight. And of course I would have been thwarting you.” He beamed over to the other, the joy in the people around him infectious enough that he didn’t feel the need to pretend his usual severity with the demon.

“Trying something new. Little change here and there, see what they get up to on their own.” Crowley had waved a hand dismissively.

“Ah.” Aziraphale felt some of the glow dampen around the edges and took a deep pull of the mead from his wineskin. “I suppose I ought to be going back to thwart then.” He tried not to sound as glum about that fact as he felt.

As he’d turned to leave a hand wrapped firmly around his upper arm, the hint of claws digging in ever so slightly. Aziraphale had turned, momentarily dumbstruck with a flush of heat blooming across his chest and creeping into his cheeks that was absolutely nothing to do with righteous anger. He didn’t even try to pull away as he looked up to Crowley, mouth ever so slightly agape and eyes hazy with mead.

Crowley had dropped his arm like a brand regardless, mouth pressing into a thin line. “Can’t have that. If you go off interfering I won’t know how well any of it works.” Aziraphale was halfway to protesting before Crowley pressed a finger to his lips in a way that was obviously supposed to be gentle but was a little ill-judged and instead smushed against his mouth. “Then you won’t know how hard you need to work against that sort of tempting in the future. It’s a celebration; there’s going to be some fun and sinning anyway. What better way to keep an eye on it than making sure I don’t do anything more. Then you’ll know what it feels like, right? My brand new style of tempting?”

Crowley’s finger came away from his mouth but he was leaning in close and Aziraphale could see into Crowley’s equally fogged eyes. The way his slitted pupils had narrowed in interest made the angel’s mouth dry. He realised his mistake the second he went to wet his lips and Crowley’s eyes flickered down to his lips, head beginning a slow tilt of consideration.

“Well, I suppose, of course, it would do me well to know about all methods of tempting. Not that I couldn’t figure you out on my own, of course. But, well, why not use the opportunity to keep you out of further mischief. Yes. Yes I think I shall.” He nodded, rambling giving him an effective excuse to break his gaze and start walking to the fire.

The area around was warm and the angel saw Crowley physically relax as they got into proximity. Poor thing must have been freezing standing there with him. He handed over his wineskin absently. It would make the other feel warmer and the fact that they would be sharing this together was neither here nor there, naturally.

They had fallen into a surprisingly comfortable silence as they passed the skin between them. Aziraphale kept his senses stretched out to get a sense of the festivities but found so much of his attention pulled back towards the black-hole gravity of the demon at his side.

So much so that at some point in the night he’d ended up slightly slumped against the demon’s shoulder and looking up at him with genuine warmth as he passed off the mead. He’d long since stopped wondering why it they weren’t growing short A miracle from one of them no doubt.

There was a moment that a shadow had passed over Crowley’s face and he looked almost stricken before his lips curled into the slightest smirk. His jaw worked around words to tease, to joke and bring back some distance. Instead the fire softly crackled and he settled into silence, looking almost sad.

Aziraphale raised a hand, cupping Crowley’s cheek with a tenderness that he wouldn’t have found the courage for without a decent amount of alcohol and the strange sense in the stillness of midwinter that felt like the whole world holding its breath.

Crowley’s breath escaped him in something that Aziraphale would have called a whimper had it not come from a demon and he pulled away quickly, face twisted with something complicated. Still, he kept Aziraphale pinned firmly at his side when the angel tried to sit up, thoroughly embarrassed at the fairly immediate reaction from the demon. He had obviously misread the situation and yet Crowley didn’t let him escape entirely.

He used the opportunity to eke some of the alcohol from his system, hoping that a clearer head would make him less likely to make a similar mistake.

Instead they sat in comfortable silence with him pressed to Crowley’s side and far too aware of every plane of his body where they touched. For all that Crowley was a drainpipe with a few extra appendages there was power underneath and Aziraphale could feel it as he let his hand drop to press against his stomach after passing off the skin. He felt the jump of the cord of muscles under his fingers and wished he was daring enough to let them find their way under the tunic.

All completely foolish, of course. Impossible given their positions and even if they weren’t on opposing sides so unlikely that two as opposite as they were would find a good match. This, of course, regardless of the fact that they had gravitated back towards each other over the course of hundreds of human lifespans.

Instead he savoured the odd bubble that the still of the night afforded them, knowing that it would all be different in the morning as the world changed and they moved closer to the sun.

When Crowley started to sag, started to drift off, Aziraphale said absolutely nothing. He merely followed the demon as his posture sauntered vaguely downwards slowly enough that neither of them had to acknowledge anything at all was happening.

Then Crowley was breathing slow and deep, the strains of voices were occasionally being carried over from the main event, and Aziraphale was left in the relative silence with just enough courage to tangle his fingers through the demon’s long hair and consider a world in which all of this could be so much easier.


	8. Choir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All heavenly beings belong to some sort of choir. Every angel can sing. And while it's popularly believed that demons lost that ability in the fall it isn't necessarily the case.  
Featuring memories of the fall, how Crowley managed to turn up at the birth of Christ, and soft husbands hours in the near future.

The thing about angels was that all of them could sing. To one end or another. It was why the idea of heavenly choirs was so deep in many humans’ psyches.

The thing about angelic choirs was that angel song was not like human song. The passed missives across the heavens, they called love and war and creation and destruction. Most importantly they conveyed emotions and intentions to humans who could not understand the grand depth of knowledge that their words alone held. _Fear not. Gloria in excelsis deo et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. Hallelujah, the smoke from her burning is a pillar to heaven._

The point is, of course, that all angels were part of a choir or another and all angels _could_ sing but that the song was the intent. The song was the feeling.__

_ _The demon Crowley had not sung in almost four millennia. There had been halting, scratching wails when the demons first fell that were almost singing but for the cloying ruin of boiling sulphur against their vocal cords. Many demons gave up there and then._ _

_ _The demon Crowley was a well-known glutton for punishment when it came to pushing against the bounds of what he was told he could do. He had not stopped singing there and had instead worked his throat into shape even as the denizens of the new-formed hell scrabbled for power and influence and built up the form of what would be. Every one of his songs had been a dark, jagged thing: railing at being forced out for thinking for himself or rebelling still against the boxes he’d been put into as both an angel and a demon._ _

_ _And then there had been the apple. Crowley found the tree of knowledge and had enough inkling of what it would mean. Naturally their Mother would punish humans for the sin of Knowing. For wanting to be more than placid innocent dolls. He sang then; not with the power of a choir but with a soft, coaxing sweetness that imparted enough of his own Knowledge that Even could choose if further knowledge would be worth their punishment._ _

_ _And then there had been a wall and an angel atop it and a wing to protecting against the first rain._ _

_ _Crowley had watched after Aziraphale, leaving his spot on the wall towards where the first true death had happened at the end of his own heavenly-issued sword. He had watched this very strange angel and he sang._ _

_ _It was love, of a sound he had never made in heaven. It was no love of their Eternal Parent, it was not the love of his purpose or of humanity or his brothers and sisters. It was a sound that was small and uncertain but grew into the space around him and permeated the garden he had yet to leave. It was a sound that almost filled out the hollow space in him but left the corners that it missed stark and barren in contrast._ _

_ _Crowley stopped singing soon after that, especially when he was too near to Aziraphale. Being close happened a lot in the early days, of course, when there were so few humans to tempt and protect. Every time he was close enough to feel the angel the new song bubbled up in his chest; slowly changing and filling more of the emptiness and in direct contravention to everything he was and everything Aziraphale called him._ _

_ _It became second nature to not sing. To push it down. To close his throat against lyrics and chords and eventually the words, the terrible human words, that he found very nearly matched to what his song wanted to impart._ _

_ _It was a terrible thing to bear, a song that no heavenly or demonic choir could ever join to. The feeling his alone in a way that a non-human’s voice should never sing alone._ _

_ _His few attempts at singing did set him in better stead for when the first Christ was born (not the one that set the whole Armageddon in motion – heaven’s one). Midwinter may be a bit of an odd time for there to be young lambs but there were shepherds on the hillside regardless and there was a heavenly choir and the whole of Bethlehem was so crawling with angelic auras that Crowley couldn’t make out where Aziraphale might be._ _

_ _He had been about to duck out of the city altogether and give up his tempting of the wise men as a lost cause when he’d all but tripped over the poor young lass chosen to give birth to the man of the hour._ _

_ _He ducked into a stable as his ears rung with the praises to heaven and stumbled into a young woman giving birth with no more support than a lone carpenter and a couple of very confused animals._ _

_ _She’d been bearing up surprisingly well as such a young woman in her first labour but had taken one look at his serpentine eyes, dark clothes and taken a breath to obviously start screaming._ _

_ __“Glory be to God for the birth of your wondrous child.”_ The song leapt from his lips as an imperfect echo to the choirs outside. It was discordant and it tasted foul like blood scratching up Crowley’s throat but Mary relaxed regardless. Then further with the next word out of his mouth. “Midwife?”_ _

_ _The birth itself went miraculously well for one literally conducted in a stable and mum and dad had been so relieved that they let Crowley hide out in the corner as the presences around them slowly started to diminish. He was so on edge that he completely forgot that he was supposed to derail the sages from getting there until they were already in the blessed stable._ _

_ _At that point he gave it up for a bad job and spent his time teaching Mary how to get the kid to latch on properly and making sure she got herself fed. They needed an adversary for their adversary so it wasn’t exactly _undemonic_ after all._ _

_ _\- - - - – -_ _

_ _It was years later (millennia) that Aziraphale sat with Crowley in the back room of the bookshop a handful of years after the failed apocalypse and sat staring into his glass of mulled wine thoughtfully. By this time there were a few more windows in the bookshop that were topped with an array of plants; most of which currently wore little santa hats. There had been nothing Crowley’s cleaning habits could do about the chaos of the shop because it put off customers but they’d done a decent job by now of turning each of their own spaces into something a little more shared._ _

_ _“You know, Crowley,” the demon perked up immediately at Aziraphale starting a conversation with his name and that lilt to his voice “I never had much to do with Christ himself. The birth was such a pantomime and those much higher up than me got all the significant jobs to do. They tended to just say that I’d get in the way, especially after the apple fiasco. Longest agent on earth and they sent me off to make sure that the star would stay in the right place. As though it were just going to disappear.” He shook his head and took a few fortifying gulps of wine._ _

_ _Crowley pulled a face but knew by now that it was easier just to let his angel ramble and get there in his own time unless they were on a deadline. “Yeah but they were always like that. Never knew what they had in you.” He smirks a little at the unspoken _unlike me.__ _

_ _Aziraphale tutted and shook his head. “No that’s not- I mean that’s very kind of you but that’s not my point. The point is… Yes, the point is that there were a few accounts that never made it into the bible. About the birth itself. Well, of course you know about the extra gospels yourself so it’s not all the birth, but you understand my meaning.” Crowley nodded, though he really did not understand the meaning at all. He was hoping Aziraphale would get to it still. “There was one from Mary herself, you know. Almost entirely ruined with age and poor preservation but nothing that a few years of some very careful miracles couldn’t help to restore. You know she mentioned an angel who actually helped with the birth. And one who seemed ‘much reduced in the ostentation of their song’.”_ _

_ _Crowley stilled and very carefully nodded. “You got there after all then?” He hedged, despite the knowing smile that was growing on Aziraphale’s face. “You always were better at speaking with humans. Not that you’re _good_ at it, mind. Just better than angels that have never met a human.”_ _

_ _“Well, quite. I’m certain that this being was a lot more informal than even I could be. And well versed with human needs.”_ _

_ _“Hng. Any idea who might actually be better with humans than you?”_ _

_ _“Oh, Crowley, do give over. My point _is_ that I was wondering if you really do sing my dear.” Aziraphale absently looked over to the tree stuffed in the corner and wondered if he should be darkening the wings of the angel on top. He was sure it would give Crowley some kind of kick at least._ _

_ _Crowley sighed deeply and rolled his eyes, his head and his spine until he was laid out across the comfortable couch with a dramatic air that the Georgians would envy. “Not really. Had to get out of a tough spot.”_ _

_ _“Oh but you, _can._ I always thought it was something that was lost in… and I just… well it’s always a tough subject to broach, you understand.”_ _

_ _Crowley huffed and beckoned Aziraphale over with a crook of his head. The other came and Crowley revelled, just a little, in the simple pleasure of placing his legs over the other’s lap and knowing that he wouldn’t be denied. “I can sing but I don’t. There was- I don’t sing the same any more and I wasn’t certain about it. The things that come out… I’m still not sure about them so it’s better to not. I mean, it’s supposed to be sending messages from Her anyway, right? That’s not my job any more.”_ _

_ _He hedged, just enough explanation that he hoped Aziraphale would drop it without leaving him so intrigued that he absolutely had to follow up with questions. Unfortunately he was watching his angel and could see that glint in his eyes and the slightest shift to pleading that told him he needed to run now or be prepared for the angel to ask him something he could never be prepared for._ _

_ _“Oh my dear, I’m certain that whatever you have to impart is much more significant than any other angel or demon They aren’t on our side after all.”_ _

_ _Crowley felt his ornamental heart stutter for a stop at the moment. They’d had some time, of course, but it still did things he couldn’t express to hear Aziraphale so freely and enthusiastically claim his side as their own._ _

_ _It was enough to make something like anxiety settle in his stomach and send his heart at double the pace when it finally remembered how to beat because he’s was suddenly actually considering this. If they did truly have their own side he had to wonder if this was safe. If he could do this and dare to hope that he wouldn’t be pushed back, that it wouldn’t be too fast._ _

_ _Then Aziraphale’s hand was on his knee, calm and steadying and a touch too hot when he was already just this side of flustered. “You don’t have to my dear. I just wondered but I wouldn’t want to push this.” The smile he gave Crowley was pure angel. Kind and understanding._ _

_ _Crowley gulped and shook his head. Then nodded. Then realised that he wasn’t certain what either response really meant. He licked his too dry lips and opened his mouth._ _

_ _In the place of words there was song._ _

_ _The song wasn’t any human language and was not even enochian in such a sense. It was a different beast altogether; as much it’s own harmony as any tune and as much a feeling as any words._ _

_ _It lasted perhaps six seconds before the demon couldn’t stand it any longer. He was about to close his mouth when Aziraphale’s hand squeezed his knee convulsively and another voice joined Crowley’s._ _

_ _It was perfectly in balance. A celestial harmony against his demonic tone that balanced into something purely…_ _

_ _Purely theirs._ _

_ _Almost human and not._ _

_ _The only other being who ever stood a chance to understand the six millennia of feeling in Crowley’s spirit and he _did._ It mirrored it almost perfectly._ _

_ _He finally dared to look over (he didn’t have much of a choice as his eyes had snapped to the other without checking with his brain first) and found Aziraphale all but glowing, in that way that only he could, and with everything Crowley had not dared dream of open in his eyes and his voice._ _

_ _They formed a choir of just two and the song of it reached out through Soho and into London and lit the hearts of the people it found with something that they couldn’t comprehend; only feel._ _


	9. Chestnuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has some very good street food and considers the pattern of how Crowley treats him when they come across each other.

It was quickly approaching Dongji, the shortest day of the year, and the mood on the streets was gradually beginning to lift. The weather had been unseasonably warm a short few weeks ago and yet the temperature was slowly dropping until snow threatened at the edges of every passing cloud and a faint frost covered the ground and trees in the mornings.

The drop in temperature saw in an increase in spirits and Aziraphale was full to the brim with love as he passed joyful people in the streets preparing for the festivities.

The fact that he was also full of hotteok, gyerranppang, chaloksusu and any number of other wonderful delicacies that caught his eye as he passed by the many street vendors in Seoul was neither here nor there, naturally.

It often made him regretful that he’d had few assignments in the area in his time on earth. Not that European delicacies and hearty English fare weren’t perfectly charming in their own ways but it often struck home how limited he was in his scope when he was given the opportunity to work in the wider world.

“Bit dangerous to meet out in the open, don’t you think?” A lilting voice teased, suddenly too close to the angel’s ear.

Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat out and shifted a step and a half away with an annoyed purse of his lips. “Actually you’ll find that the streets are quite busy and that it should be easy to blend in, as it were. That or we could go to one of the tea houses. They’re quite popular.”

“Well alright then, I’ll trust you. Not that you’re doing much to blend in with that suit.” Crowley shrugged a single shoulder as though it were nothing but he was already slowly encircling Aziraphale, just to be sure. So of course he was in the correct position when something caught the angel’s eye.

He went straight as an arrow, unfurling out of his posturing slouch only to find that the thing that was of interest was another street vendor. He almost brought a hand up to his face to rub at it in exasperation but instead slunk off in that direction, Aziraphale following nervously behind.

“What is it?” He asked, his own gaze now slipping worriedly through the crowd.

“Eh. Figured it looked better if we’ve both got something, y’know?” Crowley shrugged, leaning towards the vendor and holding up two fingers as he casually slipped a hand into too-tight jeans for some money. The motion pulled up his endearingly oversized jumper and exposed a small slip of skin that Aziraphale did his best not to stare too closely at.

“Oh.” The angel relaxed marginally, a relieved smile brightening his features as he inhaled the scent of something deep and nutty with a smoky aroma that left his mouth watering despite the delicious foods he’d already tried throughout the week. “Well, yes that’s a capital idea. It will certainly let us blend in further.” He nodded eagerly.

Crowley’s lips twitched into an amused smile as he got a small bag of roasted chestnuts and passed it off to Aziraphale before waiting for his own.

Of course, it was exactly what Crowley always did. Always so attentive to his moods. Always so quick to give little gifts that he inevitably played off as unimportant and spur of the moment.

Aziraphale looked down into his bag of perfectly roasted chestnuts and wondered how a demon so good at the business of pulling the masses just that little closer to hell could also be so painfully thoughtful.

“What? What’s all that about?” Crowley asked as soon as Aziraphale met his eye and the angel realised belatedly that too much of _something he didn’t think about_ must be showing.

“Oh nothing.” He waved off, picking out one of the chestnuts and examining it perhaps a little closely. “Just wonderful things the humans come up with.” He smiled faintly.

“Yeah angel, like putting food on a fire.” Crowley drawled, a mocking lilt to his voice.

“Oh you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. S’pose I do. Still, what was it you wanted to meet about so bad it couldn’t wait for you to get back to England?”

“Well I… Not that it isn’t _important_ of course but we could perhaps- that is to say there would be no harm in us just walking for a short while. If you’d be amenable.” He looked up to Crowley with the type of hopeful smile that the other rarely declined.

Indeed, as usual, Crowley sighed and spent a moment checking around them for anything that seemed out of place but finally acquiesced.

Aziraphale was thankful of the chill in the air giving him a decent excuse to move a little closer to Crowley as he asked after the other’s temptations while they’d been apart. The entire time the smell of toasted nuts rose up from his little paper bag and Aziraphale thought that they could well become a favourite of his.

Almost the moment he was done with his bag another was pressed into his hands, with only perhaps one or two of the chestnuts missing that Crowley had actually eaten. “Not really my thing.” He shrugged offhand as Aziraphale looked up at him.

The angel smiled, because _of course_ this was how it went. There was a soft thank you, no move to get any further away from the other, and a slow saunter down a street that seemed brighter still despite the demonic presence and the imminence of the longest night.


	10. Gold and Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's tinsel time! Featuring tree trimming, more vaguely researched history and plenty of pining.

Snow was blanketing the streets of Soho as a certain demon stepped out of a sleek black Bentley and let himself into a bookshop that was becoming as familiar to him as his own flat in Mayfair. (This was a surprisingly easy feat given that he preferred to spend most of his time out tempting humans and cooking up schemes. The majority of his time in the flat was spent unconscious.)

“Aziraphale? It’s only me.” He called as he entered.

Aziraphale would, of course, have little doubt about who would be letting themselves into the bookshop unopposed by his wards. Unfortunately the scare with Gabriel and Sandlaphon half a century ago had left Crowley very careful to announce himself to give the angel chance to send him away in the event that his bosses were around. It hadn’t happened yet but Crowley was a demon slow to regain trust in a situation.

“Come in, dear boy. I’m just in the back.”

Crowley relaxed at the lack of stress in the angel’s voice and wound his way through ever-growing stacks of books and precariously placed candles into the back room.

Where there was a large fir tree taking up a good chunk of the place that a kitchenette usually occupied. The thing was laden with spun glass and hand-made ornaments too close together in places and completely barren in others, candles tied to the ends in a way that looked miraculously held in place.

Crowley looked over the towering tree with a disbelieving shake of his head. “What’s this about angel? Going all out with the tree thing.” He pointed out, eyes catching a copy of the London News as he stepped into the room: showing off an illustration of a well lit and trimmed tree. Gold, glass, silver and copper amidst the branches.

“Ah yes. Well I thought I may give it a bit of a bash, as it were.” Aziraphale’s head popped out around the side of the tree, cheeks slightly reddened with warmth and drink and eyes sparkling with excitement. In his hand was a fistful of silver strands.

“You mean falling in line with everyone who thinks Queen Vic is an indication of taste.” He teased, tipping his sunglasses so that he could give the other a pointed look over them.

“Well you are always talking about me being more up to date so I hardly see why you should complain about it.” Aziraphale’s excitement ebbed, the smile slipping from his face and the demon immediately felt the urge to take it back, to apologise.

“Fair point.” The demon shrugged, stuffing down an actual apology. “Seems like an odd thing to start with but whatever suits you. Can tell the effort you put into it, anyway.” He offered up as an olive branch (fir maybe, but that was beside the point).

From the way that Crowley continued to stare his way the angel knew that his counterpart had more to say. He continued to work around the tree, careful of the precariously perched candles that he would be lighting once the masterpiece was complete, and continued to artfully drape more of the little silver strands over the branches.

The demon did take a few moments to circle around to where Aziraphale was working and examining the handiwork. The spaces were filled in, at least. With silver and tarnished copper and tin. It wasn’t quite the effect that the royal household had provided but Crowley hadn’t lied. It was obvious that Aziraphale had worked hard the human way to make all this work.

As with all things that they did the human way it likely meant something. Crowley would be blessed if he had any clue what that something was. “All by hand then?” He finally ventured into Aziraphale’s carefully constructed silence.

“Yes, dear boy. By hand.” Aziraphale frowned, a little shortly but certain that the other was ribbing him somehow. He took a handful of the artificial shredded silver and threw it over at the demon.

The slivers bunched and caught the air, some of them not making it but a good chunk settling onto the demon across his chest and shoulders in a very festive manner indeed. He couldn’t even pretend to hold onto his ire as the other’s face curled up into a half-shocked, half-annoyed grimace.

Even with that face the strands of silver across his suit sparkled in the faint firelight and gave him threads of shimmering light that looked, for a single moment, like the light of his essence trying to break through his corporation.

Aziraphale reminded himself to breathe and carefully took a step back. “Sherry?” He offered, voice a little tight and hoping that the demon didn’t notice.

“Sure. Can help you finish off this while I’m at it if you fancy.” The demon offered, not expecting to be taken up on the offer and genuinely surprised when Aziraphale agreed.

Between them they trimmed the tree up further in silver and bronze and eventually lit up candles that would stay safely perched where they were by force of will alone.

Crowley continued to semi-regularly turn up at the bookshop just in time to assist with trimming the place up. Indeed it was one of the few things that Aziraphale continued to keep up to date on. Including, to Crowley’s unending horror, a motion activated dancing Santa that sat by the doorway and gave customers second thoughts about whether or not this was the sort of shop they really wanted to explore any further.

It was also one of the few things that Aziraphale rarely tried to argue against on principle before he finally gave in. Crowley wasn’t entirely certain why but between that and a good meal he had a few decent ins with the angel.

It was the third year after Armagedidn’t and Crowley and Aziraphale were deep into the mulled wine, having decided to have ‘just the one’ before they started to decorate and instead had gone through several. Aziraphale would naturally insist that, as they hadn’t ever _finished_ their glasses it remained the one but this was the kind of pedantry in an angel that could cause a demon to fall in love. So Crowley carefully didn’t mention it; keeping his still uncertain heart protected for the moment.

Instead they made their way through the shop like a pair of poorly coordinated reindeer dropping off ornaments in well-remembered places only slightly askew and placing trimmings across shelves and stands that would have to be moved in the morning.

They inevitably (ineffably) circled back together at the tree that was placed to the North of the shop’s compass point layout.

Aziraphale miraculously pulled out more Quality Street and Roses tins filled carefully with decorations and ornaments and for a few moments things between them were at ease. Crowley could smile at Aziraphale with the open adoration that ran like a river below all of his thoughts and actions about the angel. It went unremarked on. It was the drink and the holidays and the gentle blanket of familiarity newly hemmed with the side that was theirs alone.

In one moment everything was completely fine. In the next Crowley lay a golden garland of tinsel over Aziraphale’s neck and the angel looked over to see the demon all but wrapped up in his own silver garland. The light glinting through always like slivers of a gentle soul pushing bright through the edges of a corporation.

Crowley was holding the ends of gold as it wrapped around the back of Aziraphale’s neck. Held him close, though nowhere near strongly enough to stop the other from moving away.

Aziraphale stared back with the feeling of something shifting below his feet, large and threatening. An unknown that couldn’t be taken back if he looked too close and let it become real. At some point in the night Crowley’s glasses had been removed and he could see yellow eyes that in another life could have easily been as the gold in his hands.

His jaw worked a moment or so as he tried to find words that weren’t quite where they were supposed to be.

For a moment Crowley mirrored him, hovered with the sway of a snake, slightly back and forth as if deciding whether to move in or flee.

“Dress you up like the tree too.” The demon finally announced through a thick voice and a smile that wasn’t quite what it should be. He carefully wrapped the garland once and trailed it down Aziraphale’s arm in a winding pattern.

Still the angel couldn’t move; watching in fascination as he was wrapped in gold and shivering every time gentle, clever fingers brushed against him.

Crowley stepped back to survey his handiwork, nodding once firmly and swallowing so thickly that Aziraphale thought he could hear it. “W-well, if that’s the case.” He finally found his voice, another strand of silver, and started to wrap Crowley in return. He made sure there was a pass across the heart where he thought the shimmering silver should be brightest and Crowley didn’t comment when it was evidently longer than any of the others; wrapping around him with ease.

“There. Fair is fair. We ought to-” Aziraphale paused, not entirely certain where his thoughts were heading and instead stepped back himself and looked towards the tree. “Ought to finish really. Third tree is the biggest right now.” He nodded.

He didn’t dare look at Crowley for a long moment but when he finally did a lot of the vulnerability had disappeared. Aziraphale wasn’t certain if he was devastated or thankful. He decided to just focus on wisps of silver and gold as he wound them through the tree and re-imagined Crowley’s gentle capable hands.


	11. Pine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring old pagan rituals and ruminations about how pine is a lot like faith in God and the plan. If you squint hard enough.

Aziraphale pulled his thick cloak closer around him with one hand to try and abate as much of the winter chill as he could when he stepped back into the village; led ably by one of the young women in training as a priestess. Bronwen, he thought, though she and her sister did look remarkably similar for two who weren’t twins.

His other hand held dried strands of pine, lightly smoking at the ends where they kept a careful burn. In the homes it felt a little strong, a little close. Outside in the winter chill it was a surprisingly pleasant scent; clean and perhaps just a little sweet. Though that may have been the cider heating in the centre of the village ready to wassail the crops.

He looked around briefly for Crowley as he was led into the next house but couldn’t see the demon anywhere.

She was perhaps still working on the bonfires to light the fields, having rushed off at a determined pace when the festivities had started in earnest. About the time that Aziraphale had asked the honour of helping with purifying the homes with the burning of pine.

This was not traditionally a male role but Aziraphale did have the tendency to put people at ease when he wanted to and there had only been a small amount of fuss about the matter.

It was all well and good Crowley going off to enjoy the festivities on her own, it was just odd for her to choose that specifically when there was cider to sneak or children to help with their tasks. They were already piercing apple and orange flesh with cloves ready to hand out at the homes once they were purified.

He did hope that Crowley didn’t think that he meant to purify _her_ out of the village. They had briefly crossed each other’s paths several times on the island in the last year; all of them ending remarkably pleasantly to say they were an angel and a demon. These days it was less of a surprise and more of a painful reminder of how unpleasant it could be working with his own people.

More and more often it felt like heaven, and his counterparts, were an enclosed space. The way that they approached purity too cloying and too much without the space and understanding of the real world to do anything to diffuse it.

And Crowley was, always, a breath of fresh air. When she wasn’t an absolute hurricane attempting to snuff out his own slow-smouldering branches with pointed questions and even more pointed looks.

The thought often made Aziraphale tremble to look at too closely so it was often only in the periphery; or in watching the way that his own smoke bent and swayed in the breeze she passed over his beliefs.

As though called by his ruminations alone Aziraphale was led out of the final house only to spot Crowley coming up the hill, leading the charge of the returning villages with fire at her back and flame-lick hair tied up into complicated braids and knots. While there were some obvious exchange as they got into the village proper Crowley barely slowed her gait as she continued to approach him. He tried hard not to smile at that but was very certain he didn’t succeed.

“I’m surprised you’re not spending more time joining in with the rest of the festivities. Or at least imbibing somewhat.” He offered by way of greeting.

“Mmn, yeah not yet angel. Spent a lot of time with that pine stuff have you?” She asked pointedly, nostrils flaring and mouth falling open just slightly enough to drag the scent along a tongue.

“Ah, yes. Is it bothersome? It is a little much, isn’t it?”

He went to raise a hand. A minor miracle that surely no one would notice. Crowley’s hand pressed atop his with a firm shake of her head. “Nah, s’alright angel. Best not to bring any more attention here than needed.”

“Is there something going on I don’t know about?” Aziraphale glanced nervously around.

“Naaah. Don’t be daft. Just, y’know. S’not bothering me so why waste a miracle.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and considered, not entirely convinced. Then some of the children charged down the street having finished the work of passing out fruit to the houses and Crowley used the opportunity to inch just a little closer to Aziraphale and not moved back.

Perhaps she really was comfortable enough with the pine scent, no matter it’s links to purification and being held in the hands of an angel.

Or even, Aziraphale had to wonder, for all her questioning and prodding and gale-like bluster perhaps Crowley also still had some attachment to the purity of the ideas that Aziraphale clung so rigidly to when everything seemed so uncertain. Perhaps it was a comfort for her, too

Which was ridiculous, as a demon really. And nothing at all to do with the ritual at hand.

Even more ridiculous to imagine that it was Aziraphale himself that the demon found comfort in. If only he could get the message to sit a little more firmly in his brain rather than teasing him with the barb every time Crowley was around.

It was truly that she didn’t mind the scent of pine so much and in the dark of the longest night Aziraphale found that he didn’t mind it so much either.


	12. Carolling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We know the story. It was Christmas 1914 and across No Man's Land a truce was called with the surges of a carol.

The run up to Christmas of 1914 was a long time coming and was, in small part, a result of the influences of a certain angel and demon among the lines. People were, after all, people. They were lazy and scared and most importantly hopeful. Almost to a fault. It was a fault that supernatural beings could use to manipulate (cajole) and tempt (encourage).

The angel Aziraphale spent much of the war as a stretcherman across both sides. Spent that time imploring a little more humanity in those he came across. Reminders to the wounded that somewhere along the enemy line there was likely someone who could meet his reflection wound for wound and loss for loss. That there was more similarity to them than that which divided them.

The demon Crowley tended to pop in and out as he pleased. With a steady enough supple of baccy and a dodgy enough look soldiers tended to make some very useful assumptions and not ask too many prying questions. Crowley put much of his effort into reminding people that, while it was potential suicide to abandon post, it was a choice to simply Not stick a head above a parapet. To take just a little longer in loading and firing a gun.

Humans are humans and will always do what suits them most. The influence did, however, make for a couple of pockets where the small allowances around cease fires to claim the dead expanded into small periods of conversation or bartering for baccy or cigs.

So it wasn’t too much of a surprise so much as a culmination of things when early in the morning of the 25th the sound of song started to carry across no man’s land. A carol.

It was eerie at first and sent a shiver down Crowley’s spine but the men around him were perking up and relaxing by halves and several of them made to leave the trenches.

“Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar, Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh...” Crowley finally processed the words but heard something else among it all. The call to relax. The call for _peace, good will to all men._

It was what had grated like a prickle against his skin. It was too _good_ for any angel but one. He scrambled up from his foxhole and was off like a hound at the heels of one of the other lads gone to check what the fuss was.

As if sensing that _whatever Crowley was_ he must know something several of the others also decided that there must be some sort of safety. Some of their own voices joined the carolling. Joined the angelic call for peace. For now. For today. For just a little.

Crowley found Aziraphale in the centre of No Man’s Land. Of course he would be, reckless thing. He grinned with a few too many teeth when he spotted the other and was heartened to see Aziraphale stop singing and smile back at him, too bright for the dreary day around them.

The soldiers were already beginning to talk, stilted and soft though it may be. Already offering up small gifts and joining the carols in small groups together. “Look how wonderful. Just for today. It wasn’t even my- I mean I helped, of course, but it wasn’t even me who wanted this. One of the younger fellows suggested it but just wasn’t sure of the heart to be first over the top.” The angel all but beamed.

“They just don’t want to get killed themselves. They’re going to make any excuse. Cowardice it is, really.”

“More like compassion, m- dear boy. Empathy.”

“Empathy, huh? Something your lot go all in for I suppose.”

“Of course; it’s one of the humans’ finer features.” Aziraphale nodded firmly, rocking forward on the balls of his feet slightly.

“Empathy.. What about angels then?”

“Angels?”

“Yeah. Empathy, compassion, whatever. Is it good for an angel too? To sit with your enemy and call a truce because everyone’s tired of hurting each other and just wants five minutes for a fag and a kick about.”

Aziraphale frowned at this, straightened his slightly rumpled uniform before moving to clasp his hands at his front. “Well, that’s an entirely different matter of course. This is just people, not good versus evil.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah and I’m good at it; their higher ups tell them they’re fighting the evil side too though, y’know. Then they meet each other and they look a lot more alike than they thought. Just flesh and blood humans with a different uniform. Weird like that, innit?”

Aziraphale spared Crowley a proper glance then, looking sad for a moment. “Yes, I do suppose so. You think it’s cowardly then? Downing weapons and- the whole lot?”

Crowley sniffed a little, shrugged a single shoulder as a couple of the baffled Brits attempted to join in with Leise Rieselt der schnee. Haltingly and with almost no success, though the Germans were attempting to slow down (to an almost dirge) to allow them to copy the lines. “Stupid, really, is what it is. What, just wander over for a quick little chat while you’re enemy’s still armed. Hope your baccie’s enough to stop him from killing you on sight so you can play friendly until he turns on you next day? Lot to risk.”

Aziraphale’s answering smile was fond. Not that Crowley dared look. “Well when you put it _that_ way. Still, I think-”

“Come on, angel. They’ll be singing at a funeral march if we let that bollocks go on any longer. Better go sort them out. Unless you’re joining the kick about?” 

Aziraphale tutted and rolled his eyes but followed behind Crowley regardless as the demon found something else they could at least vaguely attempt to sing together. Aziraphale was a little disappointed to see that it amounted to a few whispered suggestions as he wound his way among the soldiers, passing off a treat here and there.

Aziraphale was so entranced in the kindness of it that he didn’t even recognise the singing picking up again at first. Not until Crowley stopped, turned to him and quirked an eyebrow as though to encourage him on. Of course even coming from a demon it _was_ for a good cause so he was comfortable enough to take the suggestion. It was Christmas in No Man’s Land and it was as good a place as any for an angel to sing the praise from almost 2000 years before and pray a little more peace in the world.


	13. Gift wrap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the prompt for today was wrapping paper but there is an early form of gift wrapping in Japan that was done with cloth called furoshiki. So a hot spring chapter with female presenting Aziraphale is what happened.

“You know I am absolutely _not_ getting out until spring, right angel?” Crowley groused as he lowered himself into a sinfully warm hot spring with a low groan of relief. There were dozens upon dozens of yuzu floating in the water; filling the air with the rich tart scent. That and the mixture of heat and steam were almost enough to make Crowley forgive Aziraphale for deciding that a crowded onsen halfway up a mountain in the middle of winter would be a god place to bring a demon with a serpent aspect for a meeting.

Almost.

As it was he planned to grouse and bitch as well as Aziraphale himself until he felt suitably mollified or at least got an apology. Then he would go find the gift that he had left with his clothes, carefully wrapped in furoshiki cloth and kept cool and dry away from the spring, just to watch the angel light up from within and no doubt immediately give in to his hedonistic tendencies.

He soon found his sunglasses fogged up and absently expended a minor miracle to keep them clear while he was here. Even the new clarity didn’t reveal Aziraphale to him. At least the angel had blessedly chosen a suitably busy spot that they could blend in to a degree. They might stick out like a sore thumb really but most angels and demons likely didn’t have enough clue about humans to notice the difference.

It made it all the more alarming that he hadn’t spotted Aziraphale yet. He could definitely get the sense that the other was here.

“Aziraphale?”

Startled by the very sudden and obvious accent a young man next to Crowley spun around. Then craned his neck a little upwards. “Over there. I think.” He offered, a slightly nervous smile that Crowley brushed off. Even with his eyes covered humans often somehow knew that there was something unsafe about him.

“Come on what the heaven are you pla-”

The demon all but froze in the water, mouth going a little dry as the heat of the water and the air around him suddenly became so much more noticeable. He thought he’d been prepared for this. He was not prepared at all for Aziraphale to have chosen a more feminine presentation. Even in a more masculine corporation Aziraphale was softness and gentle rolling hills. Feminine she’s all curves with barely a hint of a hard edge on her and thankfully, blessedly, _terribly_ covered from the chest down by the water.

Crowley could see, if he ventured. He could glance below the rippling water and drink up what he found there. He wouldn’t survive it, like taking in holy water willingly, would be changed forever and unable to go back. He kept his gaze up; where slightly longer hair just grazed the edges of shoulders. Pure white like a halo in the light coming down from the mountain.

“Oh, Crowley!” The voice tipped a little higher than usual and Crowley felt his own throat constrict. The exclamation sounded almost breathy with the new voice and Crowley wondered that he might discorporate _or worse_ if he didn’t get his thoughts under control. “I’m so glad you could make it. Sorry. I was just speaking with this gentleman here about procuring an early copy of the Tale of Genji. You see it’s the most wonderful story-”

Crowley felt himself smile despite the cold outside and despite his insistence that he would be mad as hell about it. There was something about listening to Aziraphale go on about books that made him feel terribly fond and he almost lost track of the conversation just letting the lilt of her voice wash over the core of him.

“Are you even paying attention?” Finally came through. Aziraphale sat there with a single eyebrow raised and a pout to her lips that Crowley desperately wanted to press a thumb against, just to watch the water press its sheen there.

“Yeah just, you were going on a bit and did you have business you wanted to discuss?” He swallowed down the uncertainty and moved up a little closer to Aziraphale regardless, watching the angel narrow her eyes and continue to rest in the water with an air that, while equally haughty as a man, had some edge to it in a more feminine corporation that gave Crowley pause.

Indeed, though Aziraphale had taken to Japan like -whichever animal takes well to water- there was evidently a certain amount of distance that she commanded from those around her.

_Crowley had no way of knowing it at that precise moment but it was partially because the angel’s pale skin and paler hair had very nearly had her mistaken for a yuki-onna recently. While on closer inspection she was clearly just a very odd sort of foreigner there was still a certain degree of anxiety that her presence caused over winter._

“Well yes. I had rather hoped we could take in some of the more traditional activities first but if you _are_ going to be a bother about it.” 

Crowley was already scrambling for a ‘no bother at all, just wondering’ or something of the like when Aziraphale stood and the world tipped on its axis threatening to buck the demon off. He had the hysterical thought for just a moment that he should grab something to stop himself falling off but the only thing close to him were bobbing yuzu and soft thick _thighs_ and the thought alone stopped Crowley from being able to think at all.

When reason returned to him Aziraphale was already gently folding a towel over herself; furoshiki gift wrap over a present Crowley didn’t deserve and wouldn’t dare ask for but desperately coveted nonetheless.

“Now, there’s a wonderful tea house nearby that we can certainly sit in to discuss business. It is, perhaps, just as busy but they do offer private rooms for sensitive matters.”

A sound caught in Crowley’s throat that tried to be an assent but just wrapped itself around a few random consonants and hoped for the best. He was following Aziraphale’s pointed tilt of the head before he had time to remember that the air was frigid and he’d been in a bath. Luckily a towel was pressed into his hands by someone thinking a lot more pragmatically than his poor, lust-addled brain could even try to. She even did him the favour of rerouting him to the men’s area when he was about to follow her blindly out of the baths.

All the time in the world to try and press those images, and reactions, down would never be enough so it was unsurprising that Crowley remained mute and pliable when Aziraphale met him outside of the establishment.

Her kimono had been hand made at some point while she was here and somehow having more of her skin covered under more layers only made Crowley think of how slow he could take the unwrapping if he ever dared to reach out and try. If he could ever be allowed.

Instead he allowed himself to be led and shown where to sit and offered tea. Aziraphale was already halfway through explaining why she needed a hand on this particular mission when Crowley finally remembered his gift to her.

He pulled it from his sleeve, a box wrapped in delicate, colourful fabric with a little knot at the top that Aziraphale deftly undid with one hand as she spoke, barely looking.

Crowley knew without a doubt that she could undo him just as easily and it punched the breath from his lungs.

“Oh Crowley how very thoughtful, they’ll go perfectly with the tea.” The bright smile at the array of mochi was indeed everything Crowley hoped it would be but he still shrugged a little as though to deny he’d put much thought into it at all. “You’re really very kind when you want to be.” The smile lost some of it’s brightness but only grew in warmth as Aziraphale slid the gift-wrap cloth out from under the box and methodically folded it with a precision and slowness that made Crowley quake as her fingers moved along the fabric.

“Alright, don’t go shouting it to-”

“There’s nobody here to shout it to. For now we’re safe enough, even with whatever this is. Do try to relax just for now. There’s a dear.”

Crowley nodded and picked up his tea, not caring that it scalded him as he took a drink and watched, helplessly transfixed, as Aziraphale ever so gently brushed the furoshiki against her cheek before reverently tucking it into her own sleeve. Crowley could see where it grazed wrist and inner arm as it was put away and had to close his eyes against the thought of following the path with hungry lips.

Years later he would find the cloth again among Aziraphale’s treasures hidden away in a room of the bookshop that was scarcely used and that even Crowley had not been allowed in until the Apocalypse had been averted.

He might even hope, though he couldn’t know if he was correct, that Aziraphale might occasionally take it out to brush against his skin and remember a cold Touji day part way up a mountain. He most certainly would never get the courage to ask and so the truth of the matter lies only with a very tight-lipped angel.


	14. Eggnog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which eggnog is Not posset, Crowley encourages taste testing and eggnog, much like travelling speeds and divine forgiveness, become a mixed metaphor for feelings that can't be openly spoken of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gave me a surprising amount of trouble in part because I hate eggnog with an unreasonable passion and in part because I'm away at the moment but refuse to fall behind on a challenge.  
Then quite suddenly it picked up both pace and _feelings_ and I'm actually fairly proud of where it ended up. Even if it is late at 2:30am on 15th. If I haven't slept yet it still counts as the day before, right?

“Here, try this. Know it’s not your usual thing but it’s big with the Americans. Plenty of alcohol and very indulgent.” Crowley stood in the centre of the newly trimmed up shop and offered up a glass mug of some beige drink with frothed milk and topped with what smelled like grated nutmeg.

The look of it certainly made Aziraphale feel at ease. It rather matched his usual aesthetic and if it was for Christmas it smelled the part. “What is it?” He asked, taking the mug and smiling at the warmth as it spread through his palms.

“Eggnog. Used to do similar stuff here back around 4-600 years or so. They took it over there and really ran with it though. Got it a bit flash and got much better with the tipples.” Crowley grinned, taking a slow sip of his own drink with a carefully measured smile.

There was something in it that Aziraphale didn’t trust. Whether it was something he hadn’t seen or perhaps the demon was attempting to ‘tempt’ him with something that actually had no moral negative.

It was with no small amount of suspicion that he finally took a sip from the drink, frowning as the odd creamy flavour settled in, something slightly alcoholic lingering at the back. The angel shifted his shoulders a little, sucking at his tongue to try and recall what was so familiar about the drink before taking a slightly more substantial sip.

Creamy, sweet with the thickness that evidently came from the egg in the name. It was warm but somehow reminded him of the cold. Of being terribly itchy. Of…

He pulled a face and something in Crowley’s gaze lit up with pure demonic mischief.

“This is just posset by another name!” He accused. 

The sudden flash of teeth from the grin stretching wider still was more than enough confirmation. He still had the audacity to lean back and take the _smallest sip_ of his own drink. This time Aziraphale was looking for it and caught the slight flutter of a cringe amidst the grinning. “It’s got eggs in it.”

“As did _several_ versions, including that terrible stuff they had up Haile’s Abbey.” His frown only deepened as he remembered that awful time. It had been offset only by the sheer amount of reading he had managed to do as part of the order and even that hadn’t been enough to form even a slight fondness. It did help contribute to some of his current collection when he left. However.

“C’mon, it’s different. And it’s a traditional Christmas thing over there. Enjoy it why don’t you? May as well until we’re back with the Dowlings and you’re back to pretending you do _anything_ with that garden.” He rolled his eyes.

“Well as suspected you do better with Warlock. Now, why don’t we have something proper? Mulled wine?”

“Ah come on angel, you haven’t even given it a shot. I bet I could get you to like it. Can use almost any alcohol in it. Few different spices too. How about I try some out on you?” He asked, lips quirked up on only one side and eyes dead on him over the rims of sunglsses.

There was the temptation. The offer. So it had been both a terrible trick and an attempt at overindulgence. “Absolutely not.” He placed the mug down firmly. “

“Oh come on. I’ll just do a little glass of each. May as well relax while we can right? Give the tradition a fair chance, in the spirit of Christmas?”

“There is absolutely no point to this beyond you attempting to have me waste the evening on something I don’t even like.”

“Not a wasted night, angel. We’ve done the holiday thing a lot and I just thought about trying out something else.” 

_That and waste your evening with me. Waste a night. Don’t even think to kick me out. The world’s ending and seeing you most days as someone else still isn’t enough_. He thinks, mind ticking over the ways to find the things Aziraphale enjoys enough to accept him for a few hours longer.

“Why not have a tasting session? Couple of drinks. Shortbread palate cleanser between.” Crowley smiled a little when the shortbread seemed to give him the little crack of an opening he needed. It hurt sometimes (or more than sometimes) that after all these years he still had to fight so hard for every moment. But he would. Aziraphale was worth it. He would every time.

“You do have a way of making it sound less objectionable...” Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully.

Crowley grinned, too bright, trying much too hard to be more than it was. “Look, we can plan for Warlock while we’re at it so it won’t have to be all play and no work. He’s going to really start on the boundaries and questions next year. Terrible twos is not just a term plucked out of nowhere. Lots of angelic influence to be had, stopping the wrong kind of questions.” Crowley wheedled further, expertly dances around the razor-edged emptiness in his own heart.

“Well… we _should_ take some time about that before we go back...”

The next moment the table was full of small glasses and Crowley was grinning. “Great” He took the tray over to the little side table and motioned for Aziraphale to get himself comfortable.

The early evening passed into evening, then night and almost morning again as an angel and a demon sat warm in a bookshop that smelled far too much of cream and nutmeg but also of the usual old paper, ozone, sulphur and a hint of mould.

True to his words Crowley spent some of the time explaining Warlock’s stage of development to the principality as they drank and discussed potential lines of influence from both of their sides. Their separate sides.

Of course the moment that Aziraphale’s interest diverged Crowley followed it like a plant followed the sun; desperate for nourishment and leaning into warmth. So by the time they were on their 12th iteration (whiskey with cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg) Aziraphale was slightly unwound.

By the time they were on the 20th (rum and cognac with star anise, nutmeg and cardamom) Crowley felt bold enough thanks to Aziraphale’s slight inebriation that he was watching the angel openly. The artificial lights on the tree twinkled behind him and still had nothing on the natural glow that somehow always emanated from the other. He found himself almost silent as Aziraphale held court on _dear Oscar_ and how much better things could have been if he weren’t so backwards about a few significantly important things.

He watched his angel talk and relished the time with his own voice and his own face and just the two of them in the warmth close to the fire.

By the time several sets of Londoners were rising for the morning (despite the sun not even lightening the edges of the sky) they were on a long shot concoction that pushed the bounds of true eggnog with peppermint schnapps, mint, cinnamon and a higher ratio of cream to milk than was strictly necessary.

At some point Aziraphale had migrated from his own chair and into the couch that Crowley lounged across. At some point Crowley had gone from lounging backwards to lounging in _towards_ the angel. At some point Aziraphale’s eyes caught Crowley’s and snagged. Alcohol dusted red high on his cheeks and good company brushed a gentle smile onto his face that was reflected on the demon’s. In the space between breaths Aziraphale’s eyes became the blue of his angelic core and Crowley belatedly noticed the change in the air. That he had, perhaps, been found out.

He licked his lips, about to explain himself, and something of a squeak or a groan slipped from the space Aziraphale left open before the angel clamped down on it.

“I… You should probably be leaving Crowley. Though thank you for the attempt. I think, perhaps, I could grow a taste for some of these.” He looked to the mugs with an expression of regret despite his slightly glassy eyes. “Yes, I think I could quite enjoy a change given time and a few tries. Perhaps stick to the mulled wine though. Better the devil you know, don’t they say? Best not to start trying to change up our traditions when we hardly know what happens in eight years.”

Crowley felt something twist in him. He looked closely at Aziraphale and very much wanted to figure this out. Unfortunately the cowardly part of him didn’t want to sober up here and perhaps, with more clarity, find that he was reading signs that weren’t there. “Tell you what, when we save the world, you’ll tell me which you hated the least and we’ll toast Christmas with some eggnog.”

“Oh… I suppose I don’t hate any of them really. I just don’t always understand the flavours. But I suppose… I suppose that could be nice. Be safe as you go Crowley.”

The demon snorted a laugh and gave a salute as he backed out of the door. “Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good morning.” He tried not to think much at all as the cold outside hit him and tried to chase some of the comfortable fuzz from his mind. Eggnog was something he would neatly package and place into the lock box of his heart and not dare think about except in the darkest parts of the years ahead.


	15. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So something came up on my Tumblr dashboard today about a Welsh tradition that is very nice but somewhat unsettling. What happened was effectively a holiday creepypasta chapter that got itself slightly out of hand.  
Fluff at the end at least?

There was a small rental cottage in a charming area of Newport that currently served as both meeting place and occasional (nightly) sleep-over spot for a certain angel and demon as they negotiated the terms of a non-involvement policy over recent orders in the area.

The city was more than growing and would continue to do so with all the veracity that humans put into these things but for the moment there were just enough people to hide the fact that an angel and demon were too close to one another without being enough that they would struggle to 

It made for a surprisingly low anxiety Christmas time for the pair of them despite the closeness that broke a lot of their less-spoken rules. Head office barely bothered with them around this time of year anyway.

Crowley was just getting truly settled in with his third glass of wine, watching Aziraphale put up festive candles around the home. He put his glass down just long enough to listlessly throw another log onto the fire and bask into the warmth it gave to Aziraphale’s naturally curved edges.

He was _just_ getting settled into this when the sound of soft laughter echoed up the street from them. There was singing and high laughter and it was coming closer. Crowley rolled his eyes. Carollers, already.

Still, Aziraphale was positively vibrating as the sound moved closer and was already at the door when the laughter, low now and deep, sounded at their own little temporary home.

Aziraphale threw the door open and Crowley dropped his glass, the shatter of it and blood red stain across the floorboards left unremarked as Aziraphale took in what was looming in their doorway. Figures shrouded in darkness, moving wrong and bubbling with a laughter that was, in fact, both low and high at the same time. And completely inhuman.

Crowley vaulted himself over the back of the little couch to get himself to the door, taking in the figure at the front. A horse’s skull attached onto a pole like a hobby horse. It was surrounded by three figures that stood further in the darkness and could barely be made out even with Crowley’s inhuman sight. It raised the hairs at the back of his neck.

The head tilted a little, the movement just a little too fast for comfort. Then it turned and looked at Crowley with dead, glassy eyes. It was a mask or a puppet or a _something_ not real. It looked real enough, a real skull. Crowley told himself it was not. Still, he felt _seen_; a type of sharpness to the dark blank of the otherwise dead eyes that seemed to somehow land squarely on Crowley and see him.

It couldn’t be a skull, there was no bone behind, only darkness. It must be something with black fabric or paper or _anything_ behind the sockets. Must be someone wearing it to look unerringly at Crowley in the way only a demon could know they were being watched.

There was a hobby horse stick. Bedsheets draped over of an impossible age. Threadbare but with the pattern new and in bright warm colours. It draped straight down, no room for the bulk of what would be tall enough to fill the head. Not without there being legs.

Crowley did not look down. There would be no legs and he did not want to confirm this.

Voices rose from behind the Mari Lwyd, the very human figures behind dressed in a riot of colours. They were men (they were _supposed to be_ men) dressed as a Punch and Judy, with a fire poker and a broom respectively, and a ringleader with a large hat that cast his face all in shadow and a whipping stick at his hand.

They sang and it was not human. They sang and it was not the echoing of angelic choirs or even the painful grating cries of the Fallen those first few tries after the war. They sang and Crowley’s head flinched away automatically to deny it but the discordance was inside of his skull, scratching at the bone from the inside.

_Gentle friends, we have come to ask we may have leave to come in. If we may not have leave_ laughter rose from one of them in the back, a rolling bubble too deep and sinister but trying to be child-like _then listen to the song that tells of our leaving tonight._

Aziraphale smiled warmly but with that feeling around the edges of it that was _old_ and dangerous. Crowley loved him for it and wanted to protect him at the same time. This thing was newer than them, so much so. But it was strange and halting and _not of them._

Aziraphale stepped in front regardless, likely seeing the faint tremble in Crowley’s hand, and smiled wider still. “Then sing your tale, dear acquaintances, for I have no room in here to provide leave for one and all and this creature will be my foe.” The song was deep and holy and yet, placed behind Aziraphale Crowley found himself comforted rather than burned by it. The power went outwards, the command to leave woven into each note.

Even demons were **of** God, somewhere at the beginning of things. This was no demon, not a thing that could be smote and cast out.

They barely faltered before starting up again, though this time the punch raised his iron poker and began knocking at the wood of the door frame in a slow, insistent rhythm. The Judy raked her harsh bristle-broom over the window ledge and pane. The fine twigs _please let them be only twigs, don’t look too close_ scratching at different pitches and in harmony with the scratch that still sang and clawed at the inside of Crowley’s skull

The demon took Aziraphale’s arm and squeezed urgently, looking ahead only at those knowing dead eyes on him again. The implements remained part of the figures as they moved, the angle never changing. They were as much a part of them as hand or head or torso. All that and the sharp iron of a poker part of one terrible form that moved and sang around the Mari Lwyd.

_We have cut a shin to come here tonight over the stiles. If there are those here who could compose Englyn let us hear them. Now. Tonight._

Aziraphale took in a deep breath and wiggled up to hid full height; evidently somewhat offended by this creature even questioning if the angel could form poetry. He was practically made of it, after all. “You shall not enter this home, You are not one of our own, I do not know what you plot, And entreat: leave us alone.”

Something did falter in the beast then, it’s strange head twitching to the side whippet fast and taking in Aziraphale now. Crowley made an attempt to step in front of his angel but was stopped by a firm, warm arm.

The shadows grew in the doorway and something like a wail but almost a whinny rose up from the centre of the village. Crowley instinctively knew that it was the spot he had seen a patch of upturned, disturbed earth in the village green that morning.

The skull clattered a little as the glow around Aziraphale only seemed to get brighter under the press of shadows that made the wood groan and the stones tremble. The jaw snapped closed for just a moment, the teeth grinding in a screech that skittered down the demon’s spine before it’s mouth opened once again and the discordance began anew.

_The large sweet cake with all kinds of spices, cut generous slices this Christmas-tide. Tap the barrel and let it flow freely, don’t share it meanly this Christmas-tide_

Aziraphale paused and looked closely at the creature before them and it’s many puppets. “You mean to tell me that it’s cake you want? And our ale to partake, No armies of ours to wake, heaven and hell have no stake?” This time the press of the angel song held commands for truth.

Where Crowley expected a fight, expected more groaning and warping of the world, the Mari Lwyd nodded it’s great head in a juddering motion and the thump of the poker stopped, thought the scratching continued.

_The large, sweet cake and mortal cheer. We chase the dark from homes, tonight_

Crowley’s heart almost stopped as Aziraphale stepped back from the doorway and he beckoned the amalgamation of creatures in. “Well why didn’t you say to begin with? More than enough Christmas cheer here. Just don’t cause any mess as I’m afraid it’s a short holiday stay you see.”

Crowley turned his head to argue with Aziraphale and in the next moment the Mari Lwyd was inside of the home. It had never moved, he was certain. The doorway wasn’t large enough and it hadn’t stooped but now there were shadows in the cottage and the strange man-like figures that moved around it like puppets on caught strings were filing in. In the light their faces were drawn too tight across whatever was behind them and their smiles were too bright and infinitely cold.

He fled to the kitchen and found Aziraphale pulling out a tin with some fortified Christmas cake in and grabbing a bottle of wine from their stores. “Aziraphale what the heaven do you think you’re doing?!”

“Providing simple hospitality my dear. Whatever Mari Lwyd is, it can’t be cast out and that means they must belong in the village. If all they want is some Christmas spirit then-”

There was a burst of laughter that skittered up Crowley’s spine the wrong way right before a crash from the other room. Aziraphale pursed his lips and blinked slowly and deliberately in the way he had of gathering strength. “What did I _just say_?” Azirapahle demanded, striding out with the tin as though he hadn’t been expecting to be torn apart _or worse_ moments earlier too.

The figure of the leader was chasing the horse with rider’s crop held high and Crowley _did not_ look at the floor. Did not see whether legs chasing the horse moved as human legs should. Did not see if anything at all lay beneath the oddly-draped sheet.

“Now, you must behave or there’ll be no cheese to go with the cake.” Aziraphale ordered quite firmly, placing the tin down on the coffee table.

The Mari Lwyd opened it’s mouth again and a rattling laughter rose up and around from a point that Crowley did not want to pinpoint but it settled finally; the dark pits settling on the tin. They were shadow and void still, even with the light of the fire pressing in where bone should be. It _was_ bone. Crowley could see that clearly enough. A real skull pulled from the earth and sent to the homes round about for Christmas.

_Cannot frighten the bad spirits otherwise._

The voice ached at the back of Crowley’s teeth and made his fangs want to slip from their place in the ether. He miracled his glass back together and started pouring for the beast and their ‘companions’ anyway because he hoped Aziraphale knew something that he did not.

When the angel returned, with cheese, it was also with promises that they would deal with anything negative in the home and that the Mary Lwyd could “Just relax, dear, it must be a long night for you.”

Crowley watched this all happen in complete bafflement and promptly finished off three bottles in the hope that the lack of clarity would make things easier. He lost track of the conversation as Aziraphale and the Mara Lwyd started to chat about benevolent and mischievous local spirits in all the areas they’d been in before. Made Crowley wonder about the nature of it but no fae or spirit or cryptid had set him this on edge before and even Aziraphale’s warmth and the familiar old ornaments that decorated their tree couldn’t put that to rest until the angel was good-naturedly showing the being and it’s puppets out of the door.

Once they were alone and the shadows receded it took some of the cold away that had settled on Crowley’s heart. Aziraphale gathered him up in his arms, uncharacteristic to say the least, and started to talk. Something about books, or fairy tales. How he had done well to stand up that way. How the beast had seemed to know he was no threat, at least by the end.

Something shifted finally. Settled in the right places. He was a demon and whatever the Mara Lwyd was it thought _he_ was the threat to Aziraphale just as much as he had thought it of the thing. Aziraphale had announced him an enemy in case they were sent from one of their head offices.

He let out a slow, shuddering breath and nodded, reaching blindly for a slice of cake to give him some sort of sugar rush enough to get through his world being tilted on it’s axis “Well merry Christmas I guess.” He muttered, voice as vague and disjointed as his thoughts felt.

Aziraphale laughed and it was bright and warm and everything the Mara Lwyd had not been as they angel leaned down and brushed a gentle kiss to the top of Crowley’s head. “Merry Christmas indeed.”


	16. Ice Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pining in America because I had to look this up and couldn't find much record of ice storms outside the US.

It was the December of the year before the Antichrist would be brought into the world, not that anyone knew that particular fact as yet. Not many, at least. In hell there were just enough beings in the know that the quota for temptations and sewing discord had risen significantly from the turn of the millennium.

Accordingly, and as hell’s most prolific earth agent, Crowley had been sent on missions in all areas of the world that could use a less-personalised and more widespread touch. He had spent thanksgiving in New York and had decided that he would spend a good chunk of winter up in Maine.

This was, of course, nothing at all to do with the show _Murder She Wrote_ and was entirely due to the availability of seafood at Christmas. Never mind that he had never cared for it much before beyond making prawn cocktail a hit in the 70s.

As such he was in Maine and staying at a very nice seaside cabin when he experienced his very first ice storm. The freezing rain pelted against the windows and at first Crowley thought nothing of it. Another slightly hellish winter rain that was far too cold but that would be over with.

It continued into the night and Crowley woke the next day near freezing and with the slow understanding that the power in the little cabin was out. Entirely.

When he finally got out onto the street, aided by a couple of necessary demonic miracles, he saw why. The world had been remade in a layer of ice. Tree branches and power lines alike groaned and trembled under the weight of their impromptu gathered stalactites. Every road, pavement (sidewalk) and thoroughfare was slick with ice that glinted with the same threat as a blade in the late morning sun.

Crowley would need supplies enough to bunker down until the very second flights were going out of the country again. He huddled into a coat that made him twice his normal size and grit his teeth so hard they creaked. It at least stopped them from chattering.

It was as he was returning, bags full of firewood and cheap booze and some mediocre amount of food, that Crowley realised his legs weren’t in the position they were supposed to be. He was just thanking Satan that apparently a storm bad enough to take out most of the power in the area and a good few cars wasn’t enough of a reason to give store clerks the day off. One moment his legs were underneath him and the next they were catching on the icy ridge of a cracked bit of pavement that Crowley had widened days earlier and were moving too quickly ahead of his body; the sky suddenly in front of his face.

Then warmth, rather than the cold shock of the ground, at his back.

\- - - -

Aziraphale didn’t really know what he expected to find when he made his way over to America to hunt the demon down. He’d spent so much time perfecting his own excuse for being away from the shop and yet every thought fled his mind the moment he’d seen Crowley’s legs slip out from underneath him.

His arm was wrapped around Crowley’s back as a careful support before he’d truly had the opportunity to think about it, his feet pressing against Crowley’s to stop their forward slide. He oh-so-gently levered the demon back onto his legs and in doing so very inconveniently pulled them almost chest to chest.

“Shit! What the heaven are you doing here?” Crowley’s tone was brusque, almost accusatory but Aziraphale knew his counterpart’s embarrassment when he heard it.

The angel moved away almost hastily enough to cause himself to fall. Well I was… was taking a walk.”

Crowley blinked before his mouth twisted in offended disbelief. “Not _now_ here. I mean what are you doing _here?_ In America.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Aziraphale grasped his hands together and worried at them a little. “Well, you see, the thing was…” He looked around carefully for signs that they may be seen here together. “Well it was getting frightfully boring without you, you see. I’ve decorated the last few years without your interference and I suppose I just wondered what my wily enemy might be up to. If I should be thwarting him.”

Crowley rolled his eyes but it was naturally all for show and he was already miracling the bags away and pointing in the direction of a nearby bark. “A walk?” He echoed.

Aziraphale nodded, all genuine warmth and honest love. “Sounds lovely.”

They were passing under the precarious branches of some trees when Aziraphale spotted the clear, glassy edges of something handing from one of them. Another. Then, more.

“Oh, what _are_ those?” He asked, pointing up to the nearest.

Crowley carefully reached out and plucked the thin ice shape from the tree, twisting it by the ‘stalk’ until it came loose in his hands. He studied it for a long, slow moment before a smile quirked onto his lips that was almost void of actual mirth. Mocking, perhaps. Self-deprecating? “Tempt you to a forbidden fruit?” He asked, placing it into Aziraphale’s palm.

Aziraphale held the phantom apple in gloved hands; the soft leather cradling the shape of it well. He looked at the almost perfect shape it took: clear as day. An apple.

One that had been encased in ice and then, somehow, disappeared from the inside of it. It was beautiful. It was striking. It was slightly haunting.

Hollowed out with only the perfect shape of what had lain inside as a memoriam to substance and life and… knowledge. 

Apples represented temptation. Pride; stretching one’s self too far. And, of course, the pursuit of forbidden knowledge right to one’s own destruction. The wrath of nature here had wrapped the fruit in purity, in divine retribution from above, and destroyed what was inside until the only thing that was left was a cold shell.

Crowley had a way of feeling like an oncoming storm at times. He was all energy and danger so it was only natural.

Stood with the delicate ice form in his hands Aziraphale could only think of heaven. Pure but clinical, cold, and destroying-

What?

Seekers of knowledge? Angels who stretched themselves too far and thought a little too much about the honest questions that certain demons might pose to them?

The apple? The representation of it? A bringer of knowledge who may come too close to where heaven looked closely and find himself stood on ground too slick for Aziraphale to catch him.

Aziraphale swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat, only aware that he was beginning to clench his fist when the ice shattered in his hand. “I think that I ought to return home. You’re obviously busy here with things that don’t quite require thwarting. Happy holidays my dear. Do take care of yourself out here.” He rushed before disappearing so quickly that Crowley didn’t even have time to make a sound.

He only stood in the middle of the suddenly emptier park at the place that Aziraphale had left. He felt oddly bereft, wondering what on earth had happened from nothing more than an innocent joke in perhaps slightly poor taste.


	17. Ornament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale contemplates the nature of his relationship with Crowley over some baubles.

Every so often, around the longest night, Crowley sought him out. More often than not Aziraphale spent it alone. This was not strange or uncommon. When you were the only two agents with a permanent base on earth and you were on opposite sides… Well, really it only made sense that they simply _couldn’t_ do this every year.

Still, midwinter was a time of peace and goodwill so it was perfectly in the spirit of the time and his orders to call the ceasefire and offer up respite. Even to a demon. He told himself this a lot more confidently than he would have to anyone else but _he_ didn’t need as much convincing anyway.

Every year either Crowley crashed, large as life, into his lodgings just in time to decorate or Aziraphale would do so alone. On the years Crowley didn’t show up he would always wait a little longer and would always, always ensure there was a sprig of mistletoe in the doorway.

This year, as with many, Aziraphale was alone for the holiday. Which was fine. It wasn’t at all necessary for them to spend the holiday together. Downright dangerous, in fact. Yes. They were much safer during the years that they spent separate. _Crowley_ was safer from what either heaven or hell might do to him.

He used his words as a mantra and shield as he pulled out the little tins he stored his decorations in: always perfectly temperature and moisture controlled despite being old sweet or biscuit tins.

Better when they weren’t together. Pure selfishness to want the demon to be here when he likely had other things to be doing.

Aziraphale undid the lid with a satisfying pop and set it to the side before carefully tracing his fingers over the contents. A nutcracker soldier from the revival of the ballet in the fifties. Some of the first candles he’d put on the tree. At the centre of it mistletoe – first to come out of the tin and first to be placed. This year he’d wrap it into a wreath at the door and make no mistake of the welcome. Selfish.

Some of his first ornaments were blown glass ones. Beautiful with gentle threads of colour through the rounded, tapering shapes. Or bright and colourful despite the cost of it back then. Made to replace the apples and clove-studded oranges that had first hung on the <strike>paradise</strike> Christmas trees.

He picked up a particular favourite of his and held it to the firelight, turning it ever so slightly this way and that and watching as the warm tones made it glow from behind. Bright red; like a warning or a temptation. The barest hint of a dark stalk and a beautifully crafted, eternally green leaf stretched and squeezed and manipulated in it’s molten state to lie perfectly on the glass apple.

It was red like that first apple, like a heart, like the accents of red that inevitably showed up on his demon.

His demon. It was okay to think it. Just never say. Never get any impossible ideas of what they could be. The unspoken thing between them was enough, had to be enough, with the ever present threat of their sides at their backs.

He turned the ornament again, gentle fingers pressing against the sides. Hard enough to leave fingerprints and not hard enough to leave cracks. Exactly as hard as he hoped to hold the demon’s heart.

Crowley who always showed up when he was truly needed. Who’s great sins were asking questions and providing choices. Who’s first temptation was the knowledge to understand what they were being tempted with. So bright and ever-present in the minds of humans that it got wrapped up into so many of their little traditions.

So bright and ever present in the angel’s mind too. _”Be a funny thing, wouldn’t it? If you did the bad thing and I did the good?”_

He continued to look over the blown glass apple with a rueful smile tugging at the edges of his lips. Nothing about Crowley was what he expected of a demon from the moment they met and yet he was still a perfectly worthy adversary. Always making life difficult out there for humans who would hurt each other rather than take that pain and try to protect others from it.

He was likely out there somewhere now at a very difficult time of year making things generally insidiously worse and yet never forcing a bad decision on anyone.

While he was gone Aziraphale kept up their shared traditions in a bookshop that often felt as much Crowley’s space as it did his own.

The streets outside froze. The fire inside stayed warm. For the first time Aziraphale didn’t place mistletoe first. He placed a small glass ornament on the tree that reminded him of a companion who would always be welcome in a space that he would always make safe for him.


	18. Mince Pies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 18 of the challenge was actually cookies but I'm personally offended mince pies weren't on there and they're a very British not-British angel and demon so instead there are soft hours at the book shop and some gentle teasing.  
Als it's very late and uh... not beta read so hopefully coherant.

Spending time with Aziraphale was something that Crowley had only ever been able to rely on over the deepest night of winter. Before Jesus was born there had been promises of warm food, excess and the goodness of humans waiting for the sun to return to them. Afterwards there was the good will of the season stretching defiantly towards his opponent.

It was a good enough reason at least, for the both of them.

Crowley sat in the back room of the bookshop, legs splayed slightly and mind pleasantly wine-hazy. He looked over at the angel with open fondness, though his glasses remained firmly where they should be.

This time of year meant fewer arguments to get Aziraphale to give in to small indulgences and the odd feeling that their bosses were even further removed from earth than usual. It had always made both of them bolder and their time more relaxed.

They’d been chatting away about something inconsequential when Aziraphale placed his glass on the side and pulled at the edges of his waistcoat with a small wiggle to settle in. “What would you say to some Christmas pie, Crowley?”

The demon turned to him and considered this, confused for a moment or two before the archaic language finally filtered down into something he understood.

“Do you mean a minced pie or are you about to try and feed me a fucking slice of lamb and prune abomination?” Crowley asked, eyes narrowed behind the glasses.

“Whatever do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, picking up his glass of wine again and taking a slow sip of it.

Obviously to hid the smile he was fighting.

“You know _exactly_ what I mean, angel. Don’t try and be sweet with me.”

“And I don’t see what was ever wrong with a good old fashioned Christmas pie.” He sniffed.

“Well you wouldn’t, would you? Always up for that fancy show off food. Christ, there’s no reason at all to throw all your fruit and spice in together and then slather it in meat except to prove you can. Tosspots up top always trying to prove how good they are by giving you the worst food and making it sound fancy.” He took a deep swig of his wine as one of his legs hooked over the back of the couch, hands gesturing wildly the moment he wasn’t drinking.

“Oh, it’s nothing to do with that and you know it. Both the haves and the have nots have plenty of crimes against food on their side. What about spam? What about _blood soup?_” The angel frowned, leaning back in his own chair and watching the splayed demon with more interest than he truly gave the conversation.

Crowley snorted in return. “Alright alright. Everyone’s bad at food and the English made it into a bad taste art form, but the point is…” Crowley frowned and looked at the glass in his hand. Took another slow sip to try and gather his thoughts. “Point is… uh….”

“Christmas pie?”

“Mince pies angel! The point is they better be proper mince pies with too much fruit and sugar and butter and not to single bit of minced up animal in it. I swear if you’re messing with me on this and come out with beef I’m gonna actually discorporate you angel. And the paperwork for getting a body back has got to be _ridiculous_ this time of year.

Aziraphale looked almost offended by this but finally shook his head ruefully. “Fine, fine as you wish. Would you like a mine pie, you foul fiend?” She asked, standing and raising an elegant eyebrow in a surprisingly judgemental way for someone who had just been about to prank Crowley with a fruit and meat monstrosity.

If it didn’t just make the demon ache though. These times were precious; where they could let go and be open with fewer threats of prying eyes. It made the demon wish they could have this more often.

Stupid to think really, but a demon could dream. This particular demon had one of the most outstanding imaginations in hell.

He used it to imagine Aziraphale returning to him with a small plate of mince pies and some hot chocolate (which he did) and then sharing one between them, taking time to feed each other bites (this he did not).

What he did get was almost as good. Aziraphale was a connoisseur of the finer, more delicious things in life. While he had tried Waitrose and M&S there was something really quite remarkable about Tesco’s finest and these were the hand picked mince pies that he offered up to the demon in the warmth of his home.

“Not bad. No suet or lamb in sight.” Crowley grinned up at him, inordinately pleased with himself when he watched Aziraphale’s breath catch in his chest. The demon had removed his glasses while the other was gone and was now looking up at him with eyes that did very little to hide the depth of his feelings.

“Yes… Well I hope you enjoy. I have some of the real stuff for you to try later when you’ve stopped being quite so fussy.” He sniffed though he was smiling warm and fond all the same.

Crowley looked like he was seriously considering punching him in the arm but eventually just raising his glass in a toast and chasing the last few dregs. “Lets say that’s a hard pass and we move onto stollen afterwards? Fairly certain I’ve got some back at the flat that could make it’s way here.

The smile on Aziraphale’s face was worth all of the dancing around they had to do about this thing that lay accusingly between them even as the snow started to fall and gather outside.


	19. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 19 is a wish during a meteor shower and a little bit of holiday stargazing. Plus a lot of pining. They're always getting there.

“How about that then?”

The demon shook his head. “Satellite, angel.”

Aziraphale huffed and straightened his waistcoat fussily. “I’m starting to think you’re saying it just to be difficult now.” He accused, turning to Crowley from where he lay on the picnic blanket on the flat roof of a Mayfair flat that did not have roof access, or a flat roof at all, a few scant hours earlier.

Even with the blanket at his back the winter chill worked through to his skin and made Crowley’s presence beside him a notable line of heat. He was close, far too close for their normal interactions but it was winter and there was mistletoe stitched into the holiday-themed blanket and Aziraphale restlessly traced the path of the stitches with nervous fingers as he prayed that heaven was casting it’s eyes elsewhere.

“Trust me, angel. I know what I see. It’s too slow and too regular. You’ll get another.” He promised with a faint smile. The shower wasn’t due to really kick up for a little while yet.

“Hmm, you’d best not be pulling my leg, as it were.” The angel narrowed his eyes at Crowley.

All for show, of course. They’d trusted each other for years with the Arrangement, and now more than ever.

Of course it did give him ample opportunity to study the demon’s face, lit as it was by the haze of light-pollution London threw out. A thing which, by all rights, should be making it impossible to stargaze at all, even with the chill air preventing any clouds from forming. Naturally a certain magnificent demon had ensured a clear enough sky just for them.

Frivolous. Reckless. Aziraphale smiled to himself regardless: it was the longest night of the year and the stars hung closer to them somehow. Aziraphale caught movement in the corner of his eye and turned his head just in time to catch a tiny fire-bright blaze across the sky.

“Make a wish.” Crowley encouraged with a low chuckle. If Aziraphale were paying attention he would say that it sounded a little strained.

These days Aziraphale was always paying attention. He was too starkly aware of what he could have lost in burying his head n the sand with Crowley. So much. He reached out to rest a hand on Crowley’s arm, wondering if he could hold a wish and store it up until he needed it. Why not? It was as likely as getting a direct audience with Her rather than the Metatron and he’d taken that chance.

“What’s wrong dear?” He finally ventured, letting the imaginary wish slip away to focus on the other.

“M’fine. Bit cold but it’s a good night for it. Stars was my thing. I know stars, but I know those too. All up there together after all, right?”

Aziraphale purses his lips and considers, gently squeezing Crowley’s arm but letting the matter drop as he lets Crowley map the stars for him while they wait for more meteors.

Within half an hour the meteor shower was building in earnest and the discomfort across Crowley’s face was clear.

Then something odd. Even for them.

A faint spot that seemed to take on a faint light. A spot across the bridge of Crowley’s nose. Barely there, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it light.

The angel went very still as he watched the night sky be reflected in yellow and black. Crowley was smiling. Or grimacing. There was quiet joy in his eyes, or else a gentle pain. It seemed to walk some fine line of love mixed with pain that Aziraphale almost wished he didn’t understand. He knew that look intimately but he just didn’t know quite what it meant here and now.

Maybe a wish to return out there. He’s asked Aziraphale to run away with him, not so long ago. Out to the stars. Made a wish.

“I’m sorry. It must be so painful.” He ventured, though he wasn’t certain on _which part_ of it specifically.

Crowley only shook his head. “They’re not really stars. Not really mine.”

“You still said you know them well.”

“Belief’s a funny thing I guess. Same as wishes. It’s all up there, we dealt with it all. People they… looked at them and saw stars for so long.” Crowley grimaced again, went quiet as another flash of light blazed with small intensity and faded on the demon’s cheek.

“I… Crowley did you just…. Light up?”

“Mrrrm well kinda, a little. Just one of those things I guess. Happens more in a shower like this. Glitch in the old system. Wire crossed somewhere.” He reached up and brushed nervously at the bride of his nose, right where that first light had been.

“You light up.” Aziraphale echoed back, confused.

Crowley nodded. It was slow, slightly terse, and he was smiling at the sky though _that_ was all pain too.

“Yeah, guess. Humans thought they were stars so I guess they got lumped in with what I used to do. Crossed wires and all that. Makes sense, I guess, if She has the worst sense of humour.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Meteors, shooting stars. You know,” The hand rubbed across his face in agitation, across soft freckles. _Golden marks of an angel, stars dotted across his body burning out as heaven let out from underneath him, dragged out and leaving dark marks behind._ “they call them Falling stars, too. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale sucked in a slow breath of understanding and heartache, dying to reach out and hold the demon.

“Sometimes I get stuff through. Wishes to fallen stars, first one to find it. Like it’s supposed to go to heaven and my broken radio somehow crossed the frequency.” Crowley chuckled but it was dark and bitter.

“What do they wish for?”

Crowley blinked and turned to Aziraphale, surprise flitting across his features before it relaxed into a fond smile. A slight roll of his eyes. “This time of year? Snow mostly. Whatever they asked Santa for. Often enough for someone they love to be happy. Not much world peace, surprisingly.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. Catch a falling star. Winner gets a wish to the fallen star maker. He concentrated on the sky until his eyes adjusted and could pick up small, far falling stars.

A glow soft but real under Crowley’s thin shirt. A line of nine freckles over his heart. Nine stars. Nine lights. One directly above the left ventricle setting Crowley’s pupil’s constricting. Desire and disbelief mingling.

_Find some happiness for him. The joy he brings to me. All of it if you can but even a little; if he could even feel a little of it. He deserves so much more, much better. Words for what this has been for so long._

Make a wish.

“Yeah I see it.” Crowley croaks, eyes just a little wild as he looks at Aziraphale intensely. “Lets hope they don’t actually go upstairs. Always assumed it got up there eventually even if it went through me. Don’t want them seeing what a principality might want if it’s not bright paper packages tied up with string.” He grins but it’s tense and the flicker of his eyes checks around them instinctively for eyes. For ducks with ears.

“No. Sometimes, though, you know,” Aziraphale winds the ring around his pinky and it might be screwing his courage to the sticking place or it might be trying to force down the words beneath the surface. There’s silence for a while but there’s often silence between them and it sits between them a comfortable old friend.

“I sometimes wonder if they check at all.” It’s so low Crowley could have easily missed it. He doesn’t move, in case it reminds Aziraphale that he shouldn’t have a bad word about heaven. “So much to do, you see. Can’t even answer all the prayers so they couldn’t possibly have the time for frivolous wishes.

Crowley bites his tongue against words he Can Not say. _Even yours? Never had the time for you. Leave it to me. I’ll hear you. Anything at all, especially that. Christmas all year ‘round, a permanent ceasefire. Peace talks with mistletoe and a side of our own._

“Yeah I guess it is like that. Sure someone’s listening though.” He eventually dares to look over to where the angel is; watery eyes glued to the stars and mouth set into a hard line to hold back… Hold back everything that made him so much better than any other angel.

“I know the best one’s listening.”


	20. Reindeer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reindeer! Featuring a sleigh ride in Sapmi (Lapland) and two supernatural beings very much in love while watching the aurora borealis.

Crowley was bundled up in four layers of brightly coloured clothing and still slightly shivering against the cold. Aziraphale watched from a respectable distance as he spoke animatedly with one of the locals. Unsurprisingly the demon had made friends whilst he was out here in the middle of what was basically the Arctic by another name.

He smiled fondly as a couple of children rushed around his legs, using them as a makeshift barrier between each other before being sent skittering off by the adult. He really didn’t think Crowley was even consciously aware of the absent hand that brushed snow from one of the children’s hair as she rushed past.

There was more talking, leaning in and posturing on Crowley’s part alongside some occasional gestures in the angel’s direction. At one point he thought he saw Crowley pointedly look at the man _over the tops_ of his sunglasses. 

He clutched at the mistletoe in his hand. He had sought out Crowley here. He had offered up peace for the season. Whatever temptation Crowley was attempting to wind around the man it was not his to interfere with now.

It didn’t stop him almost tying the poor sprig in knots with nervous fingers.

He caught himself almost breathing a sigh of relief when Crowley turned to him. He might have if the demon wasn’t smirking. Whatever was happening Crowley was far too satisfied with himself and that had a way of putting Aziraphale on edge and setting his unnecessary heart at a tripping beat. He didn’t have time to worry about that too much as Crowley beckoned him over.

“Angel, got a surprise for you.” The grin, if possible, got wider, a slight tilt to Crowley’s head that was impossibly endearing and ought not look so at home on a demon’s face.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be telling me much about it then… or why you were trying to influence this gentleman here?”

“Mmm? No miracles here, you know that.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly but fidgeted with the ends of his clothing regardless. “Perhaps not but you _looked_ at him like… Well- I suppose I just haven’t seen you not using your glasses in a rather long time.” He admitted, a little of the bluster leaving him.

There was the soft sound of bells and an even cantering and Aziraphale turned to see the man walking back with a couple of reindeer hitched onto a sled. Crowley’s slightly sheepish look didn’t move.

“Little play on his good nature. And the human penchant for being superstitious.” He shrugged a shoulder, moving off to look at the reindeer in the eye. It reared back a little, nervous, and Aziraphale moved in to soothe it automatically. He patted at the great, muscular neck with firm pats of his hand and was gratified to see a calm pass over it.

He tutted when he caught the creature’s eyes. There was a soft, almost golden sheen to the brown there when Aziraphale looked close enough. Perhaps yellow. It was difficult to catch in the near darkness of the Sapmi lands but it was most definitely there.

“Crowley, what exactly did you-”

“Come on angel, it’s almost night.” The demon rolled his eyes, gesturing towards the sled and moving to get on himself.

Aziraphale wanted to argue but the poor creature was already getting agitated with a demon looming behind and he knew it would cause such a fuss if he didn’t move soon. With a long-suffering sigh he stepped up beside Crowley and took the reins with a set to his mouth that dared the other to challenge him. “How can you even tell, Crowley? It’s completely dark regardless. I hope you can properly direct me to where we’re going.”

The demon scoffed at that and shook his head. “With all this snow? The moon’ll be enough when it’s up. Not my fault they get no sun this time of year. Design flaw if you ask me but the planet’s weren’t _my_ doing.”

This successfully dragged Aziraphale into an argument around _ineffability_ and _reasons for these things, Crowley_ and Aziraphale knew from the way Crowley started to relax that he thought Aziraphale had forgotten.

Silly boy.

“So why exactly did you feel the need to show off your eyes for the privilege of taking me off somewhere even more secluded than the sub-arctic?”

“Ngk.” Crowley declared intelligently, straightening up all angles and tense muscles once again. “I- Well- Easy, it was just easy is all.”

“Yes...” Aziraphale nodded doubtfully. “Easy. Because of the superstitions.”

“Well, not _superstitions_ exactly, just- I’m taking you off with me angel.” He shrugged a single shoulder as if that was explanation enough.

Aziraphale waited patiently. Waited as Crowley tried to change the subject. Waited until he finally sighed and gave in, much to the angel’s delight. “Look, when it gets to the spring their eyes go blue is all. Like, proper heaven not hiding in your corporation blue, it’s a little freaky. Told him it was serendipity or fate or something. Old friend hunting me down here Weird eye stuff. Lapped it right up. That and a promise to make it look like Stallo came in the night. Though I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that I’m not _actually_ supposed to drink anyone’s blood.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at this but there had been so many stranger things in human rituals and traditions that he let it pass by like snow under reindeer hooves.

“I suppose that’s rather poetic in it’s way. But why reindeer at all? Why go away from the village? Is there a chance hell are nearby?” He could feel his own hand, the one between them, tight on the sprig of mistletoe like a talisman until Crowley shook his head.

There was that smirk again and Aziraphale relaxed just marginally. He was pleased with himself and if Crowley was relaxed they were as safe as they ever could be. “You’ll see. Patience is one of those angelic virtues, yeah?”

It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to start to see splashes of green over the snow. It looked like light and indeed he did realise that he was seeing more. That there _was_ some sort of light on the horizon. For a wild moment Aziraphale’s mind raced to aliens before remembering the actual facts of the planet he called home.

His mind barely caught up to remind him of the magneto-sphere and solar flares and the divine protection of earth when they crested a ridge.

The breath he didn’t need caught in his throat. He made some sort of sound but was too lost in the beauty of what was above him to even care.

The sky was alight in greens and blues that rushed over one another in twisting patterns. They moved in slow, shifting, serpentine shapes and brushed against the heavens in a way that made him ache to be up there too.

If he looked closely enough he could see the greater shape of the fall and shift of the light; could see how it was pressed and made by the radioactive flares trying their best to pulse across the surface of the planet against anything that would stand in the way.

“It’s beautiful.” He breathed softly, hot prickles behind his eyes and, oh, how he wished the other angels could understand half of the beauty down here at earth’s level.

There was a vague hum of assent from Crowley, so obviously self-satisfied.

Aziraphale watched in rapt attention as a whip-line of bright green light slowly diverged like the start of a lightning fractal. It remained two, diverging from the centre line and draping across the perpetual night-sky like a huge set of protective wings, glorious and ethereal over the entire earth below.

There was a place in his chest that expanded like he could reach the sky from here. There was a pull of muscle at his back singing in sympathy with the sky; at the need to be up there too. Instead he took a deep breath and turned to Crowley with a smile that was as much water as brightness.

Only to find the other staring at him unabashedly and with that wonderful thing in his eyes that they didn’t talk about.

His own smile turned fond as he let out a slightly wet chuckle. He placed his hand on the front of the sled, just far enough over that the tips of his fingers could graze absently over Crowley’s hand. There were only the reindeer out here to see them, after all. He didn’t miss the slight flush it brought to the demon’s cheeks.

“Well, colour me surprised my dear. It may actually be better than trimming up at home. Truly stunning.”

“Yeah, the view’s not half bad at all angel.” Crowley grinned back, all warmth and softness despite the light casting the hollows and lines of him into sharp relief.

“No, not at all.” He agreed, lights, reindeer and everything else all but forgotten as his hand slid just a little further to press warm and true atop Crowley’s own.


	21. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite gifts being a huge part of the season it's such a broad prompt I actually had difficulty narrowing down anything specifically for the history of it. So the setting and area of the world is vague in reflection. Aziraphale's feelings about a certain demon, however, are not.

The longest night of the year was a mixed bag in any early civilisation. It was the turning point towards the sunlight again and a time to be thankful for the good things that the world and any god(s) gave up.

It was also the deepest part of winter and touched the darkest places in people’s hearts. Life was hard and lean at these times and even though it was a turning point the meanness of winter was only halfway done with its stranglehold on the earth.

In short, it was a very good time for both angels and demons if they could just find the right people to tempt or redirect.

When Crawly sauntered into the little village Aziraphale was already there; pure white a stark contrast to the every day working clothes of the locals.

Somehow they didn’t seem to envy him it, or find it suspicious. The angel had obviously had time to work on this lot. They likely thought him a minor deity in his own right with Aziraphale providing the barest deflections about his true nature.

“Aziraphale! Fancy seeing you here.” He called brightly, enjoying the way the angel immediately looked up and around him. There was even a slight smile there that seemed to be an automatic reaction before it dropped into a suspicious scowl.

“Crawly. What exactly are you up to here?” He demanded, though his posture was relaxed.

“Few temptations up North. Making my way ‘round to see what they’re all up to. Surprise surprise, we’re in the same neck of the woods again. Thought I’d come say hello since I can relax for the rest of the season. Pretty easy to get ‘em riled up when it’s so blessed cold.”

Aziraphale’s lips pursed into a thin line. “Yes, well you’d be surprised to see how _good_ they can be in harsh circumstances too. How truly kind when they have so little of their own. Several of them are even exchanging gifts tonight. Favourite little foods and useful handmade things. They’re terribly good to each other.”

A small smile lit Aziraphale’s face as he looked to the village around him and the people milling about with cautious glances towards the newcomer who already knew the angel.

Crawly tutted and gave a shrug. “It’ll be different when they’re killing each other for food next month. Or later, if the chill lasts longer than they expect. They’ve got no way to know when it’s all going to be over and they’ll have food again.”

It was a fact in and of itself. The first gift in the world had been given in good faith by an angel. Sure, Adam had gifted the animals their names but it was really just busywork from god to keep him occupied in the garden. Then he and Eve had passed things between each other, small little tokens. But the first gift? The first true thing given with no expectation or command around it? A very kind-hearted, comfort oriented angel.

_Don’t thank me. And don’t let the sun go down on you here._

Within an hour it had resulted in the first death. It was what humans did. Lean them even slightly towards destruction and they’d take the garden path right the way down to the river and somehow set it on fire.

“I know you’re a demon but have more faith in them.” Aziraphale sighed, looking over to him with something that was almost hopeful. Almost expectant.

For whatever reason Crawly didn’t want to let the other down. Fussy angel who parroted back what he was supposed to but defied heaven at every turn with anything that was truly his own choice.

“Alright.” He smirked as though knowing something the angel didn’t. “I’ll stick around with you here until spring. No more interference from either of us, see if they don’t turn on each other before the winter’s out.” He held out a hand expectantly.

Aziraphale huffed and straightened out his tunic for a moment before grasping Crawly’s hand in return; firm and warm and certain of himself. “Fine. You’ll see just how well they treat each other without any outside interference.”

“Great.” Crawly nodded dismissively. “Anywhere around here for a demon to wait the winter out?”

“I’m sure young Bromwyn wouldn’t mind taking you in.” He considered, looking off into the heart of the village.

“No interference remember? Would you really trust me to be that close and not have an effect?”

“Well, I suppose you have a point. Oh fine.” The angel huffed, narrowing his eyes when he saw Crawly lean in with interest. “I suppose it’s not a _misuse_ of my power to ensure you have a place to stay. It’s keeping you away from the humans after all.”

Crawly rolled his eyes in obvious annoyance and leaned back again as Aziraphale pulled down power and the ground near to Aziraphale’s own dwelling found that it had a home there. It had been the demon’s idea to not stay with a human so Aziraphale could hardly tell why he was looking so put out now. Still the home was good. Sturdy and well-built and warm inside (not unlike a certain principality himself but at this point it would still remain to be seen).

The gift of a home built under his own power. Not unlike what would be expected of-

Aziraphale physically shook his head to clear himself of that particular thought before it could finish. He felt a flush creep up his neck and anxiously tugged at the edges of his tunic, straightening himself out before he dared to look up at the demon with a nervous smile. “Drink?” He asked, quite proud of the way his voice didn’t waver.

Crawly smirked and for a horrible moment Aziraphale feared that he had _seen_ something in him that gave it away. Until it gave way into something downright bright. “My treat, since you’ve got them all giving gifts. May as well join in the festivities.”

Aziraphale nodded and gulped down around words that weren’t quite making their way past his throat.


	22. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 22 is warmth and is also the first day of Hanukkah so of course this is the boys celebrating first night in Soho in 1801.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Fairyglass for making this the only chapter that has gone through beta and for assisting with finding the perfect kippah for Aziraphale.

There is a bookshop in the centre of Soho, almost new. The residents of London are still learning that this is not so much a shop that sells books as a place that stores them. It had only been open a year and there were precedents to be set.

As such the shop had closed at 2:17pm promptly for no other reason than the fact that it would confuse and aggravate potential patrons. The shop’s owner was inside moving through small stacks of books (that would swell into a labyrinth in time) preparing for the evening ahead. _Fussing, angel_ a certain demon would say if he were here.

The demon in question lives and works in London just the same as Aziraphale but has made himself scarce over the last year. The scare over the shop’s opening had rattled the both of them and they haven’t seen each other for over a full year, despite now being in close proximity to one another.

The bell above the door chimes and a dark figure slinks his way in, all long limbs and confidence. The door doesn’t startle at being opened; it always would be open for him given that Crowley had no reason to believe that he would be unwelcome in this place.

Aziraphale had brightened on seeing Crowley and the smile only grows when he sees a brown paper bag clutched in the demon’s hand, the edges dark with oil. It’s practically steaming, coming in from the cold outside into the warm light of the shop.

The other hand holds a sprig of mistletoe, held up in supplication and Aziraphale’s smile pulls a little to the wry side as Crowley shuffles in. It’s the end of November and far too early for midwinter traditions and talismans but the meaning is as clear as anything else.

“Of course.” He pauses in his preparations when Crowley moves off to the front of the shop. “Not in the window, Crowley.” He admonishes with a tut.

The demon shrugs but acquiesces, wandering over to one of the shelves and flicking through quickly before settling on placing the sprig in front of a copy of La Princesse de Clèves. He drops (places) the paper bag down on a table and goes to throw himself onto a couch that had no right being in the middle of a shop.

He looks up to Aziraphale from his sprawl and has to fight a smile at the other’s kippah; an ancient thing in a soft light blue that was likely held together by miracles alone at this point. The edges were wrapped with the embroidery of two branches: one ending in an apple and the other in a pomegranate. It was ridiculous that the other had kept it all these years and not found another.

_Here you go angel, bit of owt and nowt. Got given it by this family I saw at Pesach, thought you may as well use it. Not going near me._ He had, of course, omitted that the lady of the household was a seamstress and that he had been ‘given’ exactly what he’d requested after helping their daughter out of a very sticky situation.

Aziraphale lights the shamash and looks over to Crowley, expectant and warm but not pushing. Crowley scowls for a moment, more for show, but rises regardless and joins the angel at his left, at the table with the menorah. Hebrew is musical; the prayers are psalms and there’s always the fear of _singing._ The worry it will come out as demon song, broken and screaming to Her like his heart.

After the first two blessings it’s a little easier. Aziraphale is praying and there is no song, only the gentle lilting and an honest call up to Her. A blessing over the candles, a prayer of thanks and the first candle is placed in the right hand side of the old _old_ menorah on the table.

Every year that he turns up on first night it almost gets stuck. Every time Aziraphale catches his eye, smiles, and it’s okay. Crowley’s voice joins the angel’s.

_“Baruch Atah, Adonai Elohenu, Melech Haolam, shehecheyanu v’kiy’manu v’higiyanu laz’man hazeh.”_

It’s easier with Aziraphale’s voice beside him as the angel’s steady hand lights the first candle and settles the helper candle back into its place. The candles give off more of a warm glow than any of the others that light the shop; filling the small space with the same love and hope for change that Aziraphale had provided the Maccabees in their fight hundreds of years before.

Aziraphale looks to Crowley with all of the tenderness that he had to hide outside of his home. There is warmth here, and safety too. Despite their positions as enemies he wants there to always be warmth for Crowley here, too, as long as this place is Aziraphale’s. As long as it holds the mark of his faith and protection.

Crowley looks away first, just slightly overwhelmed by what he sees with his own eyes unshielded. He picks up the menorah with a gentle reverence and goes to place it in the shop window as Aziraphale’s voice pitches low into song. This time it is angel song; the words Hebrew and the force behind them, the will, enochian. _Be strong. Hazak. Let the house of prayer be restored. Bring us safety in our worship._

“You know.” Aziraphale is closer to Crowley than he expected and he shifts the menorah one last time as though he’d been fussing this whole time and not lost in the angel’s voice. It wasn’t entirely untrue. It was important to find the right place. To be seen from the whole street for all passing to be invited into the warmth. To know that they aren’t alone.

“Mmm?”

“I do believe I saw you come in with some treats? What do you say we open a bottle and try those out?” He suggests.

He doesn’t _miss_ the smile that slithers onto Crowley’s face, just this side of mischievous, but he doesn’t comment on it as he fetches the wine, already chosen and out, and pours them both a glass.

“L’chaim.” He toasts fondly, their glasses clinking as Crowley returns the toast and tears open the little paper bag.

There are no latkes, which is a disappointment that Aziraphale fixes with a quick miracle. What there _are_ are beautifully formed sufganiyot sprinkled with just the _perfect_ amount of sugar.

Crowley brings up his wine glass and takes a slow sip designed to hide the smile dancing at his lips.

Aziraphale lets out a deep sigh and decides to bite. Literally. He reaches out and takes one of the wonderfully warm little doughnuts and tastes sugar and fried dough and a perfectly balanced but unmistakeably apple-flavoured jam in the centre.

He rolls his eyes heavenward though he refuses to tamp down on the soft hum of appreciation at the taste, which is not at all dampened by Crowley’s little joke. There’s apple sauce with the latkes, for heaven’s sake. “Quite wonderful. You should try one.” He smiles and is warmed through with the food and the wine and, most importantly, the faint huff of annoyance that Crowley gives him.

“I _know_ they’re good angel. Wouldn’t dare bring them here otherwise.” He rolls his eyes but picks one up and bites into it, still watching the angel the entire time.

“Yes, I suppose you would _know the difference_ wouldn’t you.” He sniffs and it’s enough to bring a self-satisfied grin to Crowley’s face as the demon lounges back, warm and satisfied. “I should take you down to Bevis Marks on shabbat. It’s their centenary and we can see how you do in a synagogue this time.” The angel adds mildly, a single raised eyebrow as he sips on his own drink.

“Alright, alright, point made.” Crowley scowls but he’s barely able to hold it as he takes another drink; filled with warmth and love and the nearby glow from the window. It broadcasts the same to all the denizens of London from a small bookshop that isn’t so much a shop as a place to store books. And protect anyone in need of the warmth and love of the angel living within its walls.


	23. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 23 is ghosts and features a McElroy style haunted doll watch for candlenights.  
Also known as the mandatory crack chapter.

Crowley halted inside the doorway of A. Z. Fell’s bookshop, a sense of unease skittering up his spine. He froze, as though the lack of movement would protect him from prying eyes, and slowly looked around the shop to try and get any idea of what was so _wrong._

“Angel? Everything clear?” He called out cautiously, not quite letting the door close behind him just in case. It had been a short few months since the world didn’t end and everything still held a little bit of the feeling that time was holding it’s breath waiting for something to go wrong.

The silence stretched for seconds that felt more like centuries before Aziraphale appeared from the back with a bright, unaffected smile in place. In fact, if anything, it grew when he spotted the demon in the doorway. “Ah, Crowley dear. Good to see you again in such short order.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow but nodded tersely. “Yeah. I mean, already gone freelance right. What’s it matter now. No… No angels or anything here causing trouble?”

He cautiously stepped in when the angel gave a baffled shake of his head. “Then what-” Crowley stopped, straightening like an adder-strike. Felt more like his lot. Felt _spooky_. “Did you put Halloween stuff up?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale brightened in that way that told Crowley he’d worked something out but still shook his head. “No, not at all. That will be dear Nora. She’s my newest holiday acquisition.” He declared proudly before leading Crowley to the back corner of the room.

There, beside the tree and peeking out as though plotting something against the world was a little doll in a blue sari and gold hijab. She wouldn’t have been out of place as a stand in for Mary in a slightly more accurate nativity representation… if it weren’t for the pits where eyes should be and the fact that it gave off the very distinct energy of something that was _possessed._

The demon blinked. He did his best to try and process what he was seeing. “Aziraphale.” He wet his lips, still coming up blank for a moment. “Look, I know you love midwinter and I know we’ve come across a lot of weird stuff in the name of celebrating it but… _what the actual fuck?_ Did you bring back the human sacrifice bit of it? What the hell is going on here?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the suggestion. “Well dear, have you ever heard of the McElroy brothers?”

“Heard- Angel, any demon who knows _anything_ about earth knows those three. Pure chaos that lot are. Entire family, in fact.”

“Yes, well, quite… Actually they all seem very kind, but that’s hardly the point. The _point,_ my dear, is that I found the perfect holiday celebration for me.” He smiled, wide and as bright as a sun. It usually came with the same 

“Please don’t say what I think you’re gonna say. Please, angel.”

Aziraphale’s lips set into a thin line at that and her regarded the demon slowly. “I don’t see what in heaven’s name should be wrong with it.” He declared finally. “I do so love _every one_ of the traditions they’ve come up with through the years and Candlenights” he ignored the full-body eye roll and groan that wound itself out of Crowley “_Candlenights_ is the perfect way to celebrate. It’s a pan-religious, pansexual, personal pan holiday. What could be more appropriate for me?” He pointed out almost patiently.

“I’ve stepped into the fucking Twilight Zone.” Crowley declared, leaning in to stare the doll head on unblinking and getting the very strong sensation that it stared back.

“Oh Crowley, must you use language like that? I… I rather enjoy the idea of a holiday built around just accepting everyone else and letting it start and stop whenever one’s most comfortable with it.”

The softness in his voice, the slight tremor of vulnerability, finally pulled Crowley back from his inspection. “Yeah, suppose you did always like your own speed.” He smiled faintly. There was less sting there these days but it hid in the darker shadows behind Crowley’s eyes regardless.

“And the giving to charity.”

“And the pansexual bit?”

“Just another way of saying that gender doesn’t matter in love. Of course I can support that.”

“And the doll, angel?”

Aziraphale almost feels foolish for not having spotted Crowley circling back to his initial point. Always circling, always in orbit with the impossible gravity of him.

“The doll is part of their traditional Candlenights celebrations. Some of the students come in regularly and they very helpfully let me see some of the shows. It seems that at Candlenights there’s always a watch set for haunted dolls. Then you take one into your home, and Nora was just precious.”

Crowley’s head swayed a little for a moment; having almost entirely lost function in his corporation at the earnest words. “You know… They just… It’s a _bit_ you don’t actually get a doll and they’re not _actually_ haunted.”__

_ _Aziraphale frowned and gestured to Nora. “Well she most certainly is. Been causing all sorts of mischief.” He pointed out reasonably._ _

_ _Of course, the problem with this was that Aziraphale had bought the doll fully expecting it to be haunted. He actually had little concept of how a soul could become trapped on earth, odd as the idea was, but that wasn’t entirely his department and he thought that it could happen. So, expecting a haunted doll to arrive, that’s exactly what happened._ _

_ _“Satan’s sake angel.” Crowley cursed, eyeing the doll suspiciously and wondering if he could just kind of throw it at Shadwell and tell the Witchfinder to deal with it. “Maybe she is, but what I mean is that Candlenights doesn’t actually need you to have a doll that’s really haunted. They only joke about buying the blessed things.”_ _

_ _There was a moment that Aziraphale squinted at Crowley as though trying to read his intentions but admittedly the demon had never been one for lying to him. “Oh dear. Now that’s a bit of an error on my part.” He smiled a little sheepishly. “You see, the thing is it _is_ the middle of winter and I’m afraid the young lady who helped me buy it won’t be able to do anything while she’s back home for the holidays. It seems that Nora will just have to stay with me this year. Can’t leave her out in the cold, as it were.”_ _

_ _“Angel, are you-” Crowley paused. Pulled back a little. He _could_ point out that none of this was right. Could get it exorcised or something like that. Or he could let Aziraphale send an actual haunted doll out into the world after midwinter and track the chaos that it caused. “Never mind. Happy Candlenights I guess.” He snorted._ _

_ _The smile he got in return was the usual terribly tender one he seemed to get at this time of year. “Yes indeed. Let’s open a bottle and celebrate properly. I believe Nora’s overdue to play with her cards anyway.” He agreed before slipping into the back._ _

_ _Once Aziraphale was out of earshot Crowley leaned back just far enough to catch the doll’s blank void-like eyes. “I swear to Satan, you behave for him or I’ll drop you into a holy water bath myself.” He hissed, frowning further when he swore he heard a giggle in response. “No bloody respect these days.” He muttered; going to follow after the angel to see about that wine. Winter was going to be a long one._ _


	24. Holiday Card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley have been sending each other Christmas cards since it was first popular in England.  
These were, for a time, some absolutely bizarre images that I would encourage anyone to look for and resulted in an odd little battle for who could provide the most baffling greeting's card over the years.

Crowley and Aziraphale had a tradition. Of course, they had the traditional traditions. They had drinking and a tree and the menorah and mistletoe and all manner of wonderful regular things that humans had as standard in their midwinter celebrations. But they also had their own little tradition.

It was awful, truly, and yet Aziraphale found himself participating every year.

Christmas cards were, one might expect, a fairly innocuous and pleasant enough way to send a quick greeting through the holiday season. _Thinking of you. Sorry I couldn’t make it out there. We don’t know each other well enough for gifts but please take my regards._ For the most part in modern times they are just that.

This has not always been the case.

Back when cards were first picking up popularity they were made with some singularly interesting themes. Aziraphale remembered the first year (following their relative popularity) that Crowley had been away from London altogether for the midwinter period. It was 1842 if he remembered correctly. Crowley had arranged a card be sent to him with the relatively bizarre scene of a dog riding a pig whilst a young child held a horsewhip to encourage the game. It had read simply “hearty greeting” on the outside and had caused Aziraphale no small level of absolute bafflement when it arrived with the post.

To this day he still sometimes sits down with it.

They were hereditary enemies, opposite sides, eternal foes. The thought often brings a kind of smile to his face that twists through nostalgia and regret like anxious fingers around each other before settling on fond. 

Inside there had been a simple message wishing him safety and good health through the season. They were standard lines, almost clinical in their use if it weren’t for the fact that it had been a demon writing them to an angel knowing that he’d be hundreds of miles away. There was even a small vague drawing of a sprig of mistletoe in the corner.

Back then it had brought him an untold, and frankly alarming, amount of peace to know that the demon was thinking about him even while out on his own wiles.

The next year Aziraphale had returned in kind. In keeping with Crowley’s position as a denizen of Hell he had found a card with a frog and a beetle dancing whilst a fly played tambourine for them. It announced _May Christmas be merry_ in the bottom corner and caused Crowley to physically come over to his bookshop to demand an explanation after receiving it.

They had spent some time alternating years that they would send the other a card; each attempting the most ridiculous or unnerving scene possible until it devolved into a yearly competition with both of them providing their best worst options.

On their first Christmas after the Armageddon doesn’t happen Crowley waits until the day after they trim up the bookshop to saunter in with a card sealed in an envelope and held loosely between two fingers.

It’s almost careless; the way he hands it over. It’s almost careless the way he walks into the shop. Both of these things are practised and obvious but Aziraphale lets it slide. Let’s Crowley be a little bit more comfortable.

It’s four months since the bookshop burned and yet didn’t, since Heaven and Hell’s forces were on earth looking for them, since nowhere was safe and they became enemies of a couple of rather large armies. It only made sense that Crowley still looked over his shoulder and that the demon does not want that pointing out.

So he takes the card with a grin and quickly goes to fetch his own, a proud smile on his face as he hands it over. “I think you’ll quite like this one Crowley.” He announces with a curt nod.

“Guess that means me first. Drink?” Crowley asks, already sliding letter-opener fingers into the envelope and tearing it open.

“If you would, my dear. I have some mulled wine going.” Aziraphale suggests. There had _not_ been wine in any state of mulling before he had walked in but it’s there on the small burner sure enough when Crowley makes his way through.

Aziraphale can’t help but be a little disappointed when Crowley disappears. He’ll miss the chance to see the demon’s face on opening the card but he does listen out for the tell-tale groan of annoyance. Instead Crowley returns with two glasses and places them down having not touched the envelope further.

When he does open the card Aziraphale gets to see the squint of confusion followed by the annoyed jaw twitch that told Aziraphale the pun had landed. “Fuck’s sake, angel.” He hisses, taking off his glasses to look at him with a surprising amount of affection for all the disappointment he’s trying to convey.

“Is that a sailor outfit? Why is it dressed up like Sailor Mars with a Santa hat?”

Aziraphale reclines back in his chair, wine glass in hand and a satisfied smile as he lets Crowley drink it in. An oddly proportioned duck dressed, indeed, in a pleated skirt and shirt with a Santa hat and the caption _Duck the halls_. Inside he had written a short, fairly standard, holiday greeting and then transcribed a website that one of the university students who frequented the shop had kindly helped him to find.

There is an immediate frown. “Oh, ha ha. Well, do they?”

The angel raises an eyebrow at this and gently salutes with his drink. “Crowley you will have to find out for yourself. I did not write that entire thing out for you to attempt a short cut.”

He unsuccessfully hides a smile in his glass by taking another sip when Crowley growls in response.

“Right, while I do that you open yours.” He gives an impatient flick of his hand and Aziraphale wastes no time hopping to it. All the while with Crowley tapping out the web address for whether ducks have ears.

It’s a rather innocuous thing, all things considered. Two deer by a river in a mountainous landscape. Quite lovely, if Aziraphale’s honest with himself (and he’s been working on that recently). The line at the top reads _Please enjoy your non-denominational winter scene_ which is honestly just _very_ Crowley.

He’s a little baffled until he opens it and finds the words _You Heathen_ followed by Crowley’s neat but sharp handwriting declaring _You’re one of ours now._ with a little doodled snake in sunglasses at the side.

Aziraphale’s hands tighten around the card faintly and when he looks up Crowley feels a cold weight drop into his stomach to see the faint sheen of moisture in his eyes. “Angel… Shit, it was only a joke.” He rushes. His mouth is still open as if to say more but even divorced from Hell’s forces _I’m sorry_ is a hard thing for a demon to manage without preparing himself first.

“One of ours.” Aziraphale admonishes softly. “There’s only two of us. Our side.” He offers up into the stilted air.

Crowley finally grins. “That and the entire human race, angel.”

“Yes I suppose so. Well, happy holidays to the world, I suppose.” He toasts, watching the light get brighter still in his companion’s eyes as he knocks back his drink.


	25. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six millennia of keeping quiet and hidden makes love an easy thing to do and a difficult thing to say. Sometimes truces are still needed even after we switch sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gone a little sideways in terms of specifically seasonal prompts and a lot of this is more an abstract meandering because, among other things, love can most definitely be a community of people who find beauty in stories and words and images and who use what free time and talent and heart they have to reach out to each other. For the most part this whole fandom is light and love and just wanting two disaster idiots to be happy. We found a love story that’s a call to arms: _Be Kind To Each Other._ I hope next year we’re even better at it than we have been this year.

The funny thing about love is that it comes in a hundred different ways and a million different forms.

Sometimes it’s an _Alright, just this once_.

Sometimes it’s _I can’t do that. It would destroy you._

At other times it’s offering an olive branch while begging for more time, or setting up shop a 10 minute walk away from an enemy you could be half a world away from.

It’s oysters and making time and soft words and worried glances and knowing a person so well that you _do_ before they ever think to ask.

It’s toasting to the world when your entire world is sat right next to you.

What love also is, is the bits of learning that happen slowly once things are finally out in the open and can be expressed and known.

For some this is the more difficult bit. Actual, straight forward words are difficult after six millennia of forced innuendo and carefully measured gestures.

The midwinter celebrations following Armagedidn’t are almost easier in this way. There’s a sense that it’s _normal_ for them to be a little more affectionate. A little more vocal.

In the first year after the Apocalypse love is still coming in fits and starts. It still happens around nervous gestures and uncertain looks over the shoulder.

In the first year love is still the careful placing of mistletoe: as though it could ward the shop from the places that could have, _should have,_ loved Crowley and Aziraphale, and instead turned their backs on them and branded them traitors.

Love is supposed to come from those who made you. In the case of demons, and a fair number of humans, this unconditional love was not the reality. In the case of Aziraphale it was not the idea that _he_ was not loved but the harsh realisation that his own love for the humans was indeed unconditional and that this was not what angels were in fact expected to practise.

So they create wards and hand talismans and follow traditions and there is something of comfort in the light of a Menorah, the warmth of a Yule log fire, the memories captured in blown glass and glittering tinsel.

There is comfort in these old traditions and they wrap themselves in them like a blanket, holding hands underneath and whispering things into the darkness of the longest night that feel too fragile to say in the light of day.

“I thought I lost you angel, and I don’t know what I’d do. You’ve always just _been there_ y’know?”

A hand reaches and brushes fingers through fine firelight hair. “I’m sorry. From now on it’s our side, I swear.”

Crowley shakes his head regardless, throat thick with words he still doesn’t know how to say. “No, when it was _burning._ I thought it was hellfire. Thought- ‘M sorry too, about the holy water. I know what you meant. I never wanted it for that but I know what you meant.”

Aziraphale’s answering smile is an uncertain line painted in a trembling hand but it’s loving and real in the firelight. “Yes. I couldn’t think of a world with you destroyed either.” He admits quietly.

It’s as close as they get, that year, to the words that they want. But love is patient and it hopes and perseveres. It is also many things and many forms The words wait for another year.

_Crowley had felt every second as the love he was built with was ripped from his chest. Felt himself sundered from the host that had been a continuous echo chamber in his ethereal core. Then the garden. Once again he had known love, of a type. He hadn’t the words then but the song bubbled in his chest and at his lips. It was strange and new, and for millennia he hadn’t felt it returned even as it grew and changed in his chest_

Love is a funny thing. It doesn’t always come back to you from the people it should. It doesn’t always manifest for the people or in the ways it should. It does, however, always find its way in in one form or another. Only so long as space is left.

By the second year of a post apocalyptic world words have had time to become difficult. The gestures are always there, as they always have been, but more frequent and more open. _I’m here for you. Anything. You can come to me with anything. Picnics, the Ritz, a last minute rescue: I’ll remember your plants like you remembered my books._ The Word for love, though, is still difficult even with all of the gestures there.

Communication has never been their strong point. Everything understood below the surface in things they cannot ever say. Things they missed because they were _supposed to_ just know somehow.

Love, more often than not, is a thing that you choose. It’s the thing that’s found and cobbled together, and it’s made into a better one even than you thought you deserved. It’s found family and learned self care, and it’s _our side._

But Love is still something that Crowley learned to grab at and store up for the lean months; so it only makes sense to him to continue. To never push and accept only what was given to safely tuck into his aching chest. There is more of it by the second year but it’s still difficult.

Midwinter had always been a tricky time. The human psyche seemed designed equal parts to pull together and to backstab each other. The leanness of the season brought stress and anger but also brought humans to their best when they truly chose love.

Aziraphale and Crowley had been using it as a way to choose kindness (perhaps, choose love) for millennia. Ever since their first truce with mistletoe it had been easier to settle in each other’s company and set aside the usual judgements over midwinter. Humans rarely needed much nudging to either side of good or bad anyway.

In the second year they trim up and there is no mistletoe on the wreath on the door. None directly inside or sheltered in the window.

“You giving it a miss this year? Suppose we don’t really need it on our side.” Crowley finally finds the place in him to ask. Straight forward question, really. It just makes him nervous that they’re missing a tradition, especially given that Aziraphale was usually all too happy to continue with all of his comfortable behaviours (and clothes, and _things_) well outside of what was fashionable for comfort’s sake alone.

“Not quite,” Aziraphale smiles, looking smug enough that Crowley feels a thrill rush through him at what the bastard might have potentially done “just relocated it my dear.”

Aziraphale looks up. Crowley knows what he’ll find but he looks up too; feeling the heat of a blush even with just less than a year of kisses behind them. “I mean come _on_ angel. It’s not like we’ve never-”

“Well no,-” Aziraphale allows with the slightest tilt of his head and a sigh that tells Crowley that this is another thing that he should be _understanding_ without the words. “I suppose that I just thought it was a lovely alternative to the tradition that I would like to try with you.”

Crowley blinks, uncertain about the odd sense of formality that it brought to _actually turn up_ with mistletoe for kissing. 

With no other answer Aziraphale reaches out and carefully cups Crowley’s cheek. “May I?” He prompts.

There shouldn’t be nerves. There still are, but Crowley tells them where to stick it and leans in regardless. He had sworn on more than one occasion to commit every moment of Aziraphale to memory and to never waste an opportunity. He isn’t about to start here.

Their lips meet under the mistletoe and there is, in fact, something quite novel in the whole thing that leaves him smiling against Aziraphale’s lips even as his tongue tries to work his way in. There are hands on his body, moving a slow searching shift of his torso. His own go to press at the back of Aziraphale’s neck and his waist to keep him held fast.

When they part Aziraphale is still holding Crowley and the demon can feel the clear imprint of every single finger against the back of his waist as he’s held, secured and cared for. He feels Aziraphale pull away and feels his unnecessary breath go with him. Being pulled out of him in an “I love you.” That he hadn’t meant to say but would never want to take back.

There’s a moment that he looks like he might; mouth dropping open and closed. He feels Aziraphale’s hands tighten reflexively; sees the worry in his angel’s eyes, and strangles any denial that might have been trying to climb his throat.

The set of Aziraphale’s shoulder relaxes and he lets out a breath of air that sounds almost thankful, if a single huff could convey that. “I’m rather glad, Crowley. I love you too, and it would be a terrible shame if it was all to waste. I would very much like to love you until the next Armageddon. After that, if it could at all be arranged.”

It was the first time Crowley considered singing for his angel, to open up fully to him. He didn’t sing. That wouldn’t happen for another few years yet, but that was okay. Love lives and grows wherever it is nurtured, and its languages are many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of the "Love is patient, love is kind" verses 1st Corinthians Ch 13


	26. Cider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans have fermented whatever they can get their hands on almost the moment they understood the process. Cider has continued to be a part of the midwinter turnin to spring for a long while in the British Isles. It's unsurprising then, that homemade scrumpy happens when you have an ex-Antichrist whose dog has a penchant for getting into orchards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late, quite late, and will hopefully be posting the correct chapter today as well but we'll see how we go. One behind I can catch up on at least.

Midwinter around Britain has old traditions around apples and the harvest. Crowley remembers the early days, the Gauls, later with the Normans and later still as the West Country and East Anglia set to each other on the _right_ way to do cider.

Wassailing had been big in the early days as a gift to the green man and a way to start waking the trees ready for the next year’s harvest. Crowley still had some very fond memories of his first time wassailing and arriving back amidst the fires to a slightly baffled but surprisingly relaxed angel. Then the joy of a very short season in a house built by angel miracle that had made his superiors too uncomfortable to come in for his yearly check in despite not knowing _why_ they were so put off by it.

It had grown from mead with roasted apples and spices into something more like the French cidre and Saxon aeppelwin with sour apples and plenty of honey. Aziraphale had been more of a fan of that than Crowley, who had a surprisingly sweet tooth compared to the angel. It still reminded Crowley of Twelfth Night and of poor families making their way up to mansions with the hope of warmth and sustenance.

Getting the sweeter apples in had made things much more to Crowley’s taste, given that it let the humans really lean in to the fermentation process without having to worry about balancing the sweetness of it. There may have been a little more encouragement (tempting) of it into an art form at this point; which had of course resulted in the usual British pass-time of making schisms out of the way your neighbour does things for argument’s sake alone.

This naturally had the knock-on effect on Crowley’s reputation in Hell, though it was definitely something that humans would always do on their own. Like fighting over where you put the cream in a cream tea.

In any case pressing down apples to get drunk was a long-standing tradition for both the Brits and the horses that they kept. And alcohol, especially warmed and with any spice that could be found thrown in, was always popular over midwinter.

It does not come as a surprise to a certain principality that Crowley makes ‘grudging’ attempts to stay in contact with the Antichrist post Armagedidn’t. Ostensibly it’s to ensure that the boy remains safe after refusing Satan as his father and that there are no issues from any residual powers that may remain. It would be a lot more believable if he hadn’t also made sure to locate young Warlock, or if he didn’t dote on the boy in his own way when they visited to ‘monitor’ him.

Crowley made a habit of ensuring the kids got a present each over the holidays and took no small amount of delight in the arguments that it had caused for Pepper to get hers first for the Solstice. The kids had almost rioted and decided to go pagan with Pepper’s family just for the earlier gifts.

When they arrive in the winter of 2022 they find that Anathema has installed a small press outside in the garden and was trying her hand at some traditional scrumpy.

“The most traditional. As I understand, it’s supposed to come from stolen apples and Dog still has a habit of getting into the orchards and somehow leaving with enough apples for Adam to have an armful.” She smiles sideways at the young man who gives an offhand shrug.

He’s leaning against a wall with his phone out on some game and would look very much like any other teenager trying to be cool if he wasn’t also half a mirror to the 6000 year old being who was in a similar pose at the other end of the living room. Aziraphale is in two minds as to whether this made Crowley look like he’s trying to play the moody teenager or whether it said something about beings that came from Hell and chose otherwise. He’s certainly leaning towards teenager.

“You know, you really shouldn’t steal.” Aziraphale tuts, knowing that the young man won’t be listening to him regardless.

“Well, actually-” Wensleydale starts, to the groaning annoyance of Pepper “scrumping is technically an old tradition he’s keeping alive. It’s all in the books, and you really only take the apples that have fallen and won’t get picked for the harvest anyway.”

“I don’t think I’m quite convinced by that, but it’s amazing what you can do with fallen apples.” Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, it gets Crowley to look up for just long enough to give him a sour look before he goes back to what he’s doing.

“Well it’s all very interesting really.” Anathema smiles, going to pour out a couple of glasses. “Actually tried to see if it would work for something other than drinking at first. You know, fruit of knowledge picked from the fallen by the… by _Adam._ Seemed like it might have its own power of a kind but it just ended up being decent to drink.” She toasts over to them.

Aziraphale gestures back distractedly, watching Crowley closely as the other presses thin lips together and looks at the drink over the rim of his glasses. As though he were looking at the apples from beyond the grave and judging the trees wanting.

“The Them had a go of it yet?” He finally asked.

“Well, no. I mean, you can’t just give kids alcohol. Looks weird enough that they spend so much time over here anyway, never mind us getting them drunk.” Newton pipes up like the world’s nerviest meerkat.

“Y’know, as long as it’s with adults they’re legal to. We count as adults.” Crowley gave a half shrug, ignoring Wensley’s nervous glances around him in favour of the intrigued looks that Brian and Adam cast between them. 

“They are _children_ Crowley.” Aziraphale tuts in annoyance, mouth a thin line.

“Naaah. They’re teenagers.”

“And still not old enough to drink.” The angel glowers, flexing out his hands in a familiar gesture indicating _’And that’s final.’_

Things were rarely ever final when Aziraphale declared them to be. In fact, Crowley took great delight in ensuring those words were the _start_ of a great many temptations.

“Well-” Newton steps in uncertainly, almost stopping altogether when two sets of intense supernatural eyes settle solely on him. “They can with a meal. At home. We’re not really eating so much, though,-” he trails off, as though suddenly realising it was more of a couple’s argument than a discussion that he’d unwittingly wandered into.

“Little help in the kitchen, Newt?” Anathema calls through with impeccable timing, having disappeared back there at some point in the conversation.

Suddenly alone with four teenagers and a freelance demon with a bag of presents, Aziraphale doubles down. “It’s simply not right without their parents’ permission, Crowley.”

The demon huffs and pulls himself up to full height. “C’mon angel, it’s hardly more than apple juice anyway.”

“Then they can have some proper apple pressé. It’ll be hardly different from the real thing.”

“Aww c’mon. They’re hardly gonna get drunk, angel. ‘Tis the season and all that, I’ve seen younger kids go out wassailing.” Crowley points out, angling himself so that most of the table is obscured as a couple of cups appear on the table.

“That was with their parents and I can _feel you doing that_ so don’t you dare think about playing coy with me you foul fiend.” Aziraphale huffs in exasperation as he steps around the demon only to find Brian most definitely flipping the cups upside down. “My boy, what on _Earth_ are you-”

“Shh, trying out a magic trick. I’ve got to focus though. Doesn’t work otherwise.” Brian waves a little, face scrunching up in concentration.

“Oh! you’re learning magic? How wonderful, do show me.” Aziraphale practically vibrates, the glow of love from inside him that even Crowley could feel as a demon.

He settles himself in to watch the trick as Brian produces a partially melted chocolate coin from a pocket and slides it under one of the cups before showing off that he has nothing in his sleeves. Crowley watches in rapt attention as Adam uses the sudden distraction to gently pull the bottle off cider off the table.

Brian gamely keeps Aziraphale distracted as Pepper and Wensley finishes off their rather more innocent drinks and Adam refills the cups with cider. For a moment Crowley is the proudest he’s been since hearing that Warlock told Hastur he smelled of poo. He can immediately see how wrong this is going to go the moment one of them doesn’t like the taste and has a _full cup_ left to drink and it only makes it all the more exciting for it.

Crowley has to force the grin down as Brian’s trick wraps up with a suitably encouraging clap from Aziraphale, despite mixing up the cups, and the cider bottle goes back into it’s place.

“Well,-” Crowley interrupts any further magic attempts with a brief clap of his hands, reaching to hand over the bag to Adam, who dutifully hands the presents out. “no use in just standing around then you’ve got presents to open. Happy holidays.” He raises a hand to toast and downs some of his own drink.

Watches Aziraphale’s smile around his glass quirk into an equally self-satisfied smirk as the Brian and Adam pull faces down into their cups.

“That might teach them to try things they aren’t ready for.” He murmurs, suddenly very close to Crowley’s ear.

This time Crowley has no hope of hiding the grin, faced with his beautiful, absolute bastard of an angel. “Oi, book girl. We’re toasting our health in here, you gonna come out or too busy snogging?”

Adam’s annoyed mutter that it’s _gross_ and _no one even calls it that anyway_ are ignored as the witch comes back into the room with Newton, and some spiced cookies, in tow.

“I hope you aren’t up to any mischief?” She asks knowingly, even as Adam vehemently shakes his head.

“Well then, _Wæs þu hæl _” Aziraphale toasts warmly.

Crowley smiles with a shake of his head and leans in just for enough to brush a kiss against the angel’s cheek “_Drinc hæl,_ and may it continue into the new year.”


	27. Champagne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Champagne is supposed to be for a special occasion but it comes as a shock to almost no one that the freedom to spend time with Aziraphale is special enough for Crowley any time it's given to him.

The year after the Apocalypse failed to happen Crowley turned up at a certain bookshop in Soho with a bottle of something a little special and a box of chocolates that were miraculously not being soaked with the slow, insistent drizzle. He pressed fingers along a wreath that held no mistletoe and distractedly thought of the sprig that was _within_ the shop. 

“I’m quite sorry; we’re closing soon and you won’t have the chance to look through enough to get anything.” Aziraphale’s voice declared the moment the bell above the door rang.

“Ah, just browsing anyway.” Crowley drawled in return, a smile twitching at his lips at the soft, excited ‘Oh!’ that sounded from the back room.

“Crowley, sorry I didn’t get the sense of you. Any reason for the drop in?”

“Just to hang out, I guess. A little of the devil’s wine?” Crowley asked, smile wide and hands carefully behind his back as Aziraphale came into view out of the back.

“You mean a glass of bubbly? Brut?” Aziraphale leaned forward hopefully, half trying to see around the demon’s back even from halfway across the shop.

Crowley inclined his head with a slight smirk. “Impatient.” He complained, even while bringing the bottle into view.

“What are we celebrating, dear boy?”Aziraphale leaned in, excitedly looking over the label for the vintage before he cast his eyes up and caught his own reflection in sunglasses.

“The World I guess. The World every time we wanna celebrate for the next century.” Crowley grinned easily, though there was the slight dusting of red at his cheeks. “That and ‘tis the season, after all. Everyone knows the days running up to New Years are nonsense days no one gets anything done in.”

“Hmm, and I wonder how much of that is your demonic doing.” Aziraphale pursed his lips though he didn’t actually look terribly put out by the idea beyond the token chastisement.

It only made Crowley look more smug as his head bobbed to the side in acknowledgement. “Mostly done off their own backs but I helped it along. Chocolates?”

He brought the other hand around with the boxed assortment of chocolate pearls from Dark Sugars and felt the usual little stutter in his unnecessary heartbeat when Aziraphale’s face lit with delight. “Oh _my dear_ now there must be something more than the usual.” Aziraphale pressed. As though Crowley didn’t constantly bring him little gifts whenever something came to mind. As though there were a specific thing that a certain bastard was hoping to wrangle from the demon.

Crowley, for his part, remained momentarily unaware of this little intention and only shrugged a response. “Dunno. Guess… We’ve been safe for a while now. Never did get to celebrate you opening the shop so I thought: Why not try a round two. No big deal, just, no Gabriel to worry about this time.”

The sharp, intentional gaze melted in the same way that Aziraphale himself did at that. “Oh, _Crowley-_”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s no big deal.” Crowley threw himself onto the couch, all splayed limbs at careful angles with the box falling to rest perfectly on the end table. A perfectly calculated mess.

“Well it is to me. Oh, I do love you, you silly, wonderful serpent.” 

Crowley’s jaw clenched and his hand went up, both to check his glasses were there and to cover his face if they weren’t. “Hell’s sssake Aziraphale. It’s just some bubbly.”

“It’s the _thought_ Crowley, and aren’t you just always thinking about me? The more I look back the more it seems like it. I don’t know that I’ve always given you enough credit for that.”

“Ah, c’mon Aziraphale. It’s just- it’s not even- and you always- Ngk.”

Aziraphale refused to stop the fond smile at the way Crowley still flustered himself over praise. He finally took pity, leaning forward to brush a soft kiss to Crowley’s cheek and to pluck the bottle from unresisting fingers.

Crowley sat up just a little as he watched Aziraphale press the bottle to himself and begin to twist it around the cork. The coloured lights in the background cast a soft glow that haloed the angel just right and for a moment Crowley was so entranced that he missed the gentle sigh of the cork being released. 

He blinked back to himself as Aziraphale filled up a couple of glasses and handed one over to Crowley. “Thanks angel.”

“To the world?” Aziraphale asked with a lilting smile.

“To...” Crowley gulped and licked his lips nervously, feeling his stomach flutter despite knowing he was on safe ground. 6000 years of uncertainty could do that to a demon. “To us, and another year of being safe on our side.” He offered instead.

“To Us.” Aziraphale agreed, leaning in to gently press at the rim of Crowley’s glass when he tried to raise it. “I thought perhaps,-”

Crowley blinked as Aziraphale reached around his arm and linked them at the elbows before bringing his own glass up again. The demon let out a huff of a laugh that was as much joy as it was mockery. 

“Ridiculous sometimes.” He murmured, though it didn’t stop him raising his own glass too. “To us.”


	28. Snowball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snowball is a cocktail that’s pretty popular in the UK around the holidays. It started out around the 40′s and the history is vague enough that I’m giving Crowley credit. Naturally it came about from the euphoria of the second world war being over and leads to some supernatural beings being very soft together.

“Here, angel. Try this. Not all that popular but ‘s at least easy enough to get now we d’n’t have to worry ‘bout rationing.” They were deep into their cups in winter of 1945, Crowley still high enough from the end of the war and now drunk enough that he entirely skipped over the fact that rationing really didn’t apply to them so much even through the war.

“What’s this then?” The angel asked, only slightly cross-eyed as he reached out for the glass of yellowish liquid, giving it an experimental sniff.

“Snowball. Advocaat and lemonade. Got a bottle off one f’the Dutch boys at Normandy. Been tryin’t out with a few things ‘n’ this seems t’sit well. Warming, very festive.”

“Well.. suppose it’s all in the spirit, right?” Aziraphale nodded slowly and deliberately over the drink, thoughts back on what support he’d managed to be in getting the boys off the beaches. He’d never seen Crowley at the time though he knew that didn’t necessarily mean anything. War brought enough evil of their own that it was hard to pick out even a familiar demon in the background static unless he was concentrating on him.

Crowley grinned back, charming and maybe a little thin. “Spirit’s evr’thing this year, angel.” 

The pair took a moment to clink glasses, momentarily having some difficulty in lining them up, before each taking a drink.

Aziraphale grimaced a little, looking down into his glass with something approaching suspicion. “Too sweet. By half. Y’ always did have sweet tooth, dear boy.”

“Well I’ll stick t’ mine and you c’n have whatever makes you happy.” Crowley declared, the broad sweep of his hand trying to indicate dismissal but mostly just bumbling along a little like a slightly confused bee.

Aziraphale smiled into the drink and took another small sip. “But can I?” He muttered, for his own benefit above anyone else’s. It was somewhat satisfying to hear the demon <strike>try</strike> to use the words he often did as a blessing but it was so unfairly untrue that it felt as much a curse.

Aziraphale clutched at the snowball and thought of the war and of sides. Thought of the times that he’d seen soldiers on opposite sides come to arrangements about their dead or safe times or simply walking away where a shot could have been taken. Those times had been fleetingly rare nearer the end of the Great War and even more so in the Second.

It seemed to erode humanity and compassion to be in those awful conditions for so long and to so completely see the opposite number as the enemy.

Of course, with demons, they actually _were_ completely the enemy. Evil. Fallen.

Somehow Aziraphale’s time in close quarters with Crowley had eroded that notion. It was odd that their inherent struggle wouldn’t break down the curiosity that had caused that pause the first day on the wall. The pause that allowed a demon to continue speaking and plant questions and _notice_ him and the humans and what had gone on. Aziraphale was certain that none of his superiors would approve.

More than anything Crowley was his touchstone on Earth. He acted as a reminder of the deep compassion that humans were able to reach as well as the deeply terrible things that they could do in a situation. He was also, himself, extremely thoughtful and kind beyond anything that Heaven would say demons were capable of.

In all, it was very confusing. That confusion only became sharper if he thought too much about miraculously saved books or treats shared _just because he was there_ or the way that the demon would sometimes take his glasses off. Only in the shop when they were together. Only at his most drunk (for the moment). But regardless, Crowley would sometimes remove them and let everything under his surface shine through his expression like a beacon that looked very much like _good_ and _love._

“Want a diffr’nt one, angel?” Crowley’s voice suddenly broke in.

“Hm? D’frent?” Aziraphale echoed as he tried to blink away the melancholy thoughts and focus on the present.

“Yeah. Not having much joy wi’that one.” He pointed out, his own glass already half gone.

“Oh, no, I… Hmm… want to try.” He wasn’t too certain why he didn’t take up the offer. He’s switch on his next drink, certainly. Perhaps it was just that it was something Crowley suggested. Maybe it was the somewhat festive term given that they rarely actually _got_ any significant amount of snow for the holidays. Either way he took another very small sip, trying not to let the sweet overcome the flavour as he considered the demon.

“Suit yourself.” He only shrugged in response, but there was a slightly pleased lilt to the words that Crowley always got when he was pleased with himself.

It was rather endearing, if Aziraphale was honest. (He was rarely honest, but he was quite drunk and quite warm and willing to make an exception for today.) It was midwinter and nothing followed the rules of their Arrangement while they sat and drank and Aziraphale soaked in the powerful love and relief that filled the city.

It all gave Aziraphale just enough courage to abandon his usual chair and take the seat on the couch right next to Crowley. There wasn’t room with Crowley’s sprawl but the second Aziraphale’s intention became clear the demon was all but scurrying to make the room and allow the angel to sit in next to him.

“Hoping it’ll grow on you like I did?” He leaned to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear; voice filled with the faux confidence of alcohol and warmth.

“Perhaps so, my dear. Perhaps it will do yet.” He smiled, looking into his glass again. How long had it take, though, really? Moments and yet millennia all in one. “We’ll see if it leaves quite the impression that you did.”

“I- ng, hrk, I mean… Nothing’s gonna be that good.” He tripped over himself before landing squarely on a set of words he hoped made him sound rather suave and modern about it all.

From the gentle smile and soft blush that rose to Aziraphale’s face he’d failed in the best kind of way. “No, I don’t suppose not.”

Crowley took a gulp of his snowball at that look; throat working overtime around the mouthful as it felt suddenly dry despite it all. Something warm and nervous settled into his stomach as he watched his own hand reach out, as though it weren’t quite his own, and work it’s way into Aziraphale’s short curls, coming through almost absently for the hammering of his heart.

Aziraphale looked back at him; everything so pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. There was a very good chance that neither of them would remember this when they were sober again. Aziraphale set aside his glass and leaned into the touch. His eyes slid closed as he let himself be comforted by the warmth of touch of a being that was meant to be his enemy.

When he felt lips press against his is was somehow more of an inevitability than a surprise. Crowley’s were warm and soft and inviting. And he tasted like a sweet snowball. Aziraphale kept his eyes closed, as though opening them may break the spell, and reached up to cup Crowley’s cheek as they shared lazy kisses well into the night.


	29. Glitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley comes wandering into a certain Soho bookshop following a not-quite new year's glitter party. Aziraphale can't quite bear to get rid of Crowley and instead invites him to drink just a little more and spend actual New Year's Eve in slightly quieter company.

Aziraphale was just settling in with a glass of mulled wine and his second book of the night when there was a commotion at the door. Luckily it wasn’t anyone _breaking_ in, as the doorbell chimed happily with the announcement that the lock had done absolutely nothing to deter the intruder. 

It was almost midnight and, given that there was only one person who could possibly be bursting into his shop with such a racket, Aziraphale was rightly worried about what may be happening.

He quickly bookmarked his page and set the book aside before making his way out to see what was happening. “Crowley? Wha-”

The demon was looming in his doorway in a mesh shirt that strongly hinted at the skin beneath and leather pants far too tight to safely hold any sort of effort. There was a dusting of blue, green and pink glitter through the demon’s hair that caused glinting fractals better than any halo as the lights in the shop caught it.

He looked partly breathless and was grinning wide and terribly, obviously, drunk. “Angel! You ready for the countdown?”

“The countdown?” He echoed, brain still attempting to catch up to the sight in front of him.

“Yeah, angel, the countdown. Was out at JoJo’s and they were gonna- and I didn’t want the new year to start without you.”

Crowley made his way over and Aziraphale could see the shimmering red eye liner and the silver across Crowley’s cheeks as well as the further covering of multi-coloured glitter that appeared to have been carelessly _thrown over him_ at some point.

“My dear… I mean, Crowley-” Aziraphale cleared his throat self-consciously, looking away from the demon “it’s only the 29th. The new year doesn’t start for another couple of days. Aside from which you know it isn’t always a good idea to be here.”

Crowley’s frown of confusion slowly gave way to something much more guarded as Aziraphale progressed and the angel felt his stomach sour at the knowledge of the way his words could affect Crowley. He always tried so hard to keep his reactions hidden, poor as he was at it, and to see it so clear across his face…

“Where are your glasses?”

Crowley seemed to startle for a moment, looking down at his hands where his sunglasses suddenly were, though Aziraphale was certain they hadn’t been in the moment before. “What does it matter? Just you. You know what I am. Right though, should be off and going. Was in Soho, thought I could see you. Happy New Year, and all that, see you next time there’s a thwarting.”

“Wait, Crowley!” The words came before Aziraphale actually knew what he intended to follow them up with. Unfortunately Crowley stopped immediately, because of course he did, because he _always_ did.

This was supposed to be the one time of the year that Aziraphale could offer up an honest truce, of the sort that Crowley had been working towards since the first moments of the garden, and he’d gone and shut Crowley down only because of his surprise at- what? Less flesh than he’d seen in several other periods of time? A little glitter that was no more offensive than what the chaps flooding from Old Compton street often had covering them.

It very suddenly didn’t feel a fair thing of him, for all that Crowley did attempting to keep the both of them safe whilst still always _pushing_ at those boundaries Aziraphale set for fear. Of course, it was always in a demon’s nature to push at the edges of the rues, to tempt. Still, it was usually in the ways that made Aziraphale think with more compassion.

And, of course, Crowley was turned and looking at him with mouth a thin line that barely covered the hurt at the dismissal.

“I’m sure a drink or two wouldn’t hurt. I have a good bottle of rioja open. And you can tell me about this party where they’re already celebrating the new year.” He suggested. He didn’t apologise; angels don’t do _wrong, per se_ after all, but it’s an olive branch.

“Mmm, suppose, if you’ve got one out.” Crowley nodded, evidently off kilter with the change.

“Wonderful, take a seat and I’ll be right back.” He declared; already feeling the odd tightness in his chest and stomach unwinding to something more manageable as he rushed off for the wine.

It gave him a few precious moments to gather his own thoughts. It obviously gave Crowley the same; as he was wearing the sunglasses once again when Aziraphale returned. He supposed it was only fair and tried not to be too disappointed with the turn of events as he passed over a half-full glass of wine and noticed the dusting of glitter that his fingers left on the stem.

It very abruptly brought his attention to the couch, and the gentle sparkles of colour that Crowley was leaving as he leaned and shifted and fidgeted along the fabric. It would be impossible to get out with anything short of a miracle; glitter always was.

Aziraphale pulled his gaze away and tried to not think too closely about how that semi-permanent mark in his space made him feel. “So, New Year’s Eve on the 29th?”

Crowley’s lips picked up in a smirk. “JoJo’s, Aziraphale. Any excuse for hedonism and a good party. Great place to got some decent temptations in, especially this time of year.”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” Aziraphale pursed his lips with the slightest sigh “but why a fake new years? They can do that on the night anyway and they hardly need a _gimmick_ like that as an excuse for all of that excess.”

Crowley tilted his head with a single shoulder shrug before taking a gulp of his wine. “Some of ‘em have to be with family for the real thing don’t they? Can’t be dressed _like themselves_ or kiss who they want when Big Ben actually goes off, can they? What would their _good Christian families_ do then?” He asked in a sing-song mockery.

Aziraphale looked down into his own glass with a soft tut. “Yes, well, I suppose that’s quite right.” He had to concede after a moment.

It was, to not be able to be truly with the person you cared for because of your family’s opinions, a tale of tragedy that was almost as old as human stories. It was also always something that found the space between Aziraphale’s ribs and squeezed in an all-too-human way.

He startled a little when a glittering palm came into view and very carefully took hold of his chin, raising his head enough to meet Crowley’s eyes. They were still lined in red making the yellow-gold, and the fact that his glasses were once again missing, all the clearer.

“C’mon angel. They’ve got their communities when their families won’t have them. Got a lot of safe spaces around Soho that you wouldn’t always expect, far as I understand it.” He smiles a little and it causes Aziraphale to nervously wet his lips.

“Well, of course! There being nothing wrong with it at all. All the better that they’re rarely in here to actually _buy_ anything. Yes, of course this would be a place for them, without all of the temptation of all night bars, of course.”

“Of course.” Crowley grinned in return, finally satisfied enough that he had the angel’s attention to finally let go of his chin.

Aziraphale tried desperately to ignore the phantom warmth that remains on his chin as Crowley pulled back. To ignore the suggestion of glitter that he knows it will have left imprinted in his stubble; soft rainbows of a community that pulled ever closer at times like this where family felt more like a noose than a comfort.

“You know, I may have been a little rash earlier. You are, of course, more than welcome here for the new year. The decorations don’t go away until twelfth night, after all.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and slumped back into the couch again with a grin that couldn’t be pressed down. “Do people even still do that any more? Twelfth night?”

“Well, whatever anyone else does, _I **do.**_” He huffed, straightening out his bow tie just to put a fine point on it.

“Alright, alright. I’ll be here. With bells on. Or just… not glow sticks.” Crowley smiled, warm and real and glittering in the soft light of the shop. “No one I’d rather ring it in with.”


	30. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale meet up just as the calendar changes over to the Julian Calendar and Crowley encourages some increasingly silly drunken resolutions that eventually stray into something a little too close to what he really wishes he could resolve to take.  
Second to last prompt and I wandered into angst and pining? Sorry, not sorry.

It was the second year of the Julian Calendar, Caesar was dead, Rome had devolved into civil war, and an angel and a demon were holed up in a small home with mistletoe tucked into the bottom corner of the window.

For months it had become a safe, neutral, space for the both of them as they monitored the fallout from the assassination and the progression of both the civil wars and little Octavius’ rise. Not a continually shared space, naturally. Each of them had their own quarters in entirely different areas of the empire and each of them had wildly different assignments in the aftermath.

What they also had was a central location where they had met, respectably rarely, to bitch, gripe, moan, and (on one very memorable occasion for Crowley) have what was worryingly close to a full human panic attack. 

Aziraphale had of course protested heavily at the initial suggestion and yet by the time Junius was ending Crowley often found the angel at the little house before he turned up; often with a decent wine already unstoppered. It took a little of the edge off of ridiculous orders that had no regard or understanding of how the humans actually operated. They wasted (never wasted, not truly) nights with incredulous stories of their bosses and hyperbole about the good or evil they had seen in those humans they came close to.

The truce had still been tentative, it always was between the both of them. Crowley’s natural urge was to push against boundaries; to wheedle and tempt, where Aziraphale’s fall back was to the comfort of the party line and words that someone else had given him. Crowley always felt it was a shame that Aziraphale hoarded libraries around him and collected all the world’s poetry into his heart and yet, when push came to shove, what came out was always the silted practised words that the archangels had handed down.

Saturnalia that year had helped to change that. The mistletoe in the window declared something that wasn’t quite yet _their side_ but still somehow took a sense of friction away from the space that neither had been truly aware of until it was suddenly gone.

Crowley arranged to have more work to do nearer Rome specifically and spent increasing amounts of time there for more than just shop talk. Aziraphale even returned one day to find that the demon had made himself a bed and was sleeping soundly in a blocked off corner. He was adamant that the demon would never find out how long he had stood there transfixed by both the sight and the whirl of complex emotions it had stirred up like a dust cloud with a good cleaning.

The place became _almost_ like a home with the amount that the two of them frequented it. Not that it could be such a thing when it was a shared space. It was merely a neutral ground and both of them regularly reminded themselves of the fact, just to be sure.

Saturnalia passed with a surprising amount of fanfare. Some of the fighting lulled around the time and tentative celebrations kicked up right across the empire. A certain angel and demon used the tradition of role reversal to pretend to be human for a couple of days.

They were heading for Januarius and Crowley checked almost daily that the sprig was still there and that the peace between them wasn’t ending. In Hell it was always Too Late. As a demon you got used to it, though a mortal soul never could, but this in between uncertainty was somehow worse than the perpetual looming sense of having already lost.

This was living on borrowed time.

It was waking up in that house and knowing that the angel was somewhere nearby and knowing that it couldn’t be that way for much longer. Knowing that he would likely get no say in when that ended, or how, because he could never dare bring it up himself in fear of hurrying that inevitable end to the strange peace they had found amidst the chaos.

There was even the chance that it would be broken by someone from either of their sides turning up in the city. Even with the relative ease between the two of them it was a risk that consistently played at the back of both of their minds.

By the time the sun set on the eve of the new year Crowley was in the very nice loose-but-lucid state of drunkenness that allowed him to think a little bit less about the contingencies he wound into his life and plans. Somewhere far off pockets of civil unrest were still burning hotly and formed bright spots of potential temptation on Crowley’s radar that he shrugged off in favour of the warmth of Aziraphale’s company.

“Y’know, if you think about it. If you considered everything you did, and everything I did, and all this mess… We’d have been just as well not bothering at all really. All the bad, or good, it _really_ did in the end.” Crowley mused, well into the second of the amphorae and desperately close to the beginnings of an idea that he would later claim a spark of genius.

Aziraphale tutted and rolled his eyes at this. “The whole point is that I guide and thwart your wiles and the humans get to make their decisions. It’s all terribly important for the great plan.”

Granted the plan was a little fuzzy after the amount of drink he’d taken but Aziraphale wasn’t about to admit to that particular point.

“Yeah; and they’re trying to make choices for the whole year right now. Future they don’t know if they’ll live to see,” Crowley flopped down onto the bench around their table, perilously close to Aziraphale’s lap, and looked up to the other thoughtfully. “What would you resolve to do?”

What in Heaven’s name do you mean Crowley?” Aziraphale wiggled a little uncomfortably, tips of his ears warming at the too-familiar nearness of the demon.

“Well, this whole thing’s about Janus, right? You look back, you look forward, and you decide what you want to do. We should do it too. What do you want to change next year?” He presses, getting up for just long enough to top up both of their cups before going boneless again.

“Well there’s hardly a point to that. I’ll have my orders I imagine, as will you. What could I even _want_ to change?”

“C’mon though angel, really think about it.”

“I hardly see the point. I follow Janus no more than I follow Saturn. There isn’t any _point_ in this little game for me.”

“I mean I don’t either you daft sod. I know what’s actually there, you don’t just _forget_ that,” he rolled his eyes expressively behind small dark glasses “but it’s a bit of fun isn’t it? Think about all the stuff that happened year before and then decide what you’re gonna do… different.”

“You mean what you’re going to do _better?_” Aziraphale arched a brow.

Crowley scowled and waved off the idea with one hand while pouring more from the amphora with the other. “S’all relative angel. What’s better for them’s sure to be looked down on by your lot.”

“Well, they’re still trying to improve and that’s admirable.” Aziraphale huffed through his nose.

Crowley only grinned. “Well if you like it so much why don’ you join in?” He needled, a smug little bob of his head punctuating the sip of wine he took.

Aziraphale looked down into his cup with a tight-lined mouth, studying it too closely. “There’s nothing I could want to change.” He said, with all the intensity that he usually did when he wanted to convince himself more than anything.

“Bullshit,” Crowley declared with a grin “I’ll start us off. I’m resolving to try more new stuff than just wine next year. There’s a lot more they can make alcoholic with the right push.”

There was another sigh and a tut but Aziraphale seemed to relax incrementally and Crowley took it as a win. “I think I shall resolve to put up with fewer of your shenanigans.”

“I think you should resolve to put up with less archangel bullshit.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale made a good show of looking scandalised as he sipped his drink. “I think _you_ should resolve to learn how legs work finally.”

Crowley looked at him, mouth falling just slightly open in a way that just shouldn’t be so alluring. The demon looked somewhere between shocked and appreciative. “I’ll get right on that angel; just as soon as you learn how to dress in the right century.”

“Well it’s certainly not something I feel the need to resolve to do.”

They both took another few decent drinks before Crowley piped up again sullenly. “I’d like to resolve to tempt someone who wasn’t going to do something more horrific than anything I suggested.”

Aziraphale hummed distractedly. Some humans did feel like uphill battles at times. “I think I’ll resolve to be a little more active in thwarting those wiles of yours. You _do_ seem to find the ones that do serious harm and I often let you go centuries without dealing with you.”

Crowley very carefully stopped breathing for a few moments to process the words, wondering exactly how bad it was that the resolution sounded appealing to him more than anything else.

“If I’m going to have my own personal angel thwarting me I suppose I’ll have to try a little harder at the tempting. Wouldn’t want you t get bored, angel.”

“I’m sure I won’t with your mischief.” Aziraphale declared, again with more concentration than should be needed going into his disapproving look. “Anyway. It’s almost the new year and I am famished; what say we eat?” He suggested, more for something to do to deflect whatever was happening. A miracle provided them any food that they would need and Crowley, thankfully, backed off for the moment.

By the time they were done with the meal and through another couple of amphorae Aziraphale was feeling far too relaxed and Crowley had, at some point, ended up almost on his chest as they reclined on the bench. He was absently passing up the occasional grape to Aziraphale as they chatted about nothing that made any sense.

Aziraphale was expounding on how hippopotamuses leading chariots would be both terrifying and awe-inspiring when he realised that Crowley had gone quieter than usual. He looked down, half expecting the demon to be asleep but instead finding him staring into his own cup intently, lips moving but voice too quiet to be heard over Aziraphale’s own excited musings.

Now that things were quieter he could hear the faintest murmurs of some of it. _“Could resolve to listen to you like this forever. C’n’a resi-seso-thing even **be** to wile where you are? Resolve to watch you smile more. Make you smile more. Blessed idiot.”_

The angel picked up speaking again, trying to pretend he’d never stopped at all, and eventually suggested that Crowley actually go to sleep while he tidied the mess.

Aziraphale knew the exact brand of coward that he was but the moment Crowley was asleep he used the opportunity to slip out of the home and take the sprig of mistletoe with him. His heart thundered and stomach churned the entire time with the feeling that he was doing something _wrong_. Still, he knew the only truly wrong thing could be in going along with whatever it was that stirred in him whenever Crowley was near.

He resolved, if anything, to be stronger against this thing in his chest that he could not feel for a demon. He didn’t see Crowley again until he was helplessly watching a young man from Galilee be put to death for nothing more than human kindness and a demon provided the only compassion that Aziraphale saw. Every moment between them ground down against a resolution that Aziraphale was increasingly uncertain he ever wanted to make.


	31. Auld Lang Syne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock comes to study in the UK when they go to university and Aziraphale and Crowley go to spend Hogmanay with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a quarter past midnight and I'm spending the New Year writing for good omens and wishing the best across a discord server to some of the best people I know in this fandom. I'll be very lucky if it's also what I find myself doing for the year.
> 
> I hope the final chapter, the new year, and this next decade find you healthy, hale, and with the ones you love best.  
Happy New Year.

Song is built into the human psyche. Voices are raised in song as celebration, praise and mourning alongside almost every emotion that touches a life. It was naturally linked to the first angelic choirs providing missives from On High but it seemed built into their hearts. They used their voices to reach each other the same way they reached out in times of disaster or reached out to the stars.

In the right situations and with the right intentions songs can be prayer. Where they hold hope. Where they ask for good to come or try to ease pain.

Auld Lang Syne is like that. A prayer for the future, for better.

It’s 2026 and Warlock has come back to the UK to study at Edinburgh University. Humanities, much to their father’s dismay and a certain demon’s chagrin. Aziraphale declares this the perfect excuse to go back and take part in the Hogmanay celebrations, not to mention refill his stores of the good whiskey and some select delicacies. 

Warlock’s friends are entirely enchanted by the demon and angel that turn up for the celebrations. Warlock insists that they will be, under no circumstances, joining the three of them for the celebrations in spite of Aziraphale’s warm assurances that it would be no bother at all and Crowley’s evident glee at the amount of embarrassment that he causes just by being seen.

There are a significant number of _“Oh, that explains.”_ and _“They really weren’t kidding, huh?”_ among the general chatter that ensures Crowley knows there have been _stories_ told about Nanny Ashtoreth and how Warlock was raised.

They’re rushed out of the flat share and towards Edinburgh centre in a flurry of stylish black and glitter that has Aziraphale looking at him with something fond in his eyes. “Alright, knock it off brother Francis.” Warlock glowers as best they can, falling back into the names they still used when they felt the two were treating them like they were still eleven.

“Of course, young Warlock,” Aziraphale grins, like the bastard he is “please lead on. I’ll trust your judgements as to the best spots for the festivities.”

There’s a sense of warmth and revelry thrumming through the city as they wander and Crowley soaks in the latent sins just waiting to be acted upon. Sometimes it’s difficult to be off the clock; especially when opportunities are so rife and spirits are so high.

“Gonna be weird not hearing Big Ben, angel.” Crowley points out instead, bringing Aziraphale’s hand up to brush a kiss against his knuckles. Even half a step in front of them Warlock catches the motion and rolls their eyes.

Aziraphale only chuckles and moves a little closer. “My dear, we’ve been without before when they were doing the maintenance. And for years before. We’ll manage I think.”

“Yeah. Suppose it’s better being with the little terror for the holidays as well. We’re very proud of you by the way, young Warlock.” Crowley grins over to the teen, voice slipping back and forth between his normal voice and nanny’s soft brogue.

“Yeah, don’t make a big deal out of it.” The teen shrugs. Aziraphale all but beams at the redness that tinges Warlock’s as they continue to lead them through the streets and point out places that they went with their new little university friends.

Crowley can see hints of fires in the distance down at Princess Street and hear the pounding strains of music in amongst all of the chatter and cheer.

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?_

He watches Warlock move ahead of them and thinks of Adam down south at Cambridge. The Antichrist and the child who might have been the Antichrist. Both of them living relatively settled lives, working on bettering themselves, and looking to a future that had seemed all but impossible when Crowley had begged Aziraphale to run to the stars with him.

There had been a time that Crowley was going to try and forget. They’d done enough damage to Warlock in the raising of the child and Adam had more than enough of the supernatural in that brush with the almost apocalypse and everything that had come with it. In the end it had been Aziraphale who’d encouraged him to try and make contact again; sensing how conflicted the demon was at having these two kids, who’d brushed with the forces of Hell, and just leaving them to it.

Now they’re practically true godfathers to two children, and that’s without counting The Them whose memories had been altered after the event but were often far too Knowing regardless and seem to have been left with some sort of imprint to their psyches.

Crowley frequently finds himself looking closely at them and hoping that they’re a sign of the kind of safe hands the world will be in within a couple more decades.

_We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet._

Aziraphale and Crowley had spent millennia apart and centuries close and decades together. There had been constant matches about the inherent goodness of humans. There had been constant matches about how unfair it was to expect people to behave just as well no matter the disadvantage you set them up with at the beginning.

No matter what their positions had been at any given time there was almost always a drink to be shared between them.

No matter who was doing the wiling or the thwarting their story had wound together in equal parts ill and good deed and, no matter what, in attempted kindness both given and received.

Crowley had spent so much of his time on Earth committing to kindness to the ‘wrong’ people in the name of subverting the will of Heaven. Lifting the poor, encouraging the downtrodden to revolution. Aziraphale looked back at it sometimes and wondered how he could have followed Heaven’s party line like a shield for so long from the only other person who truly understood the true potential in humans, and the true worth of them.

Aziraphale had spent so much of his time on Earth coming to truly understand the humans. Finding what they needed, understanding what was truly good beyond the rules that they set themselves. He had _done_ without waiting for permission. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. Often enough Crowley looked at this terribly brave, terribly hedonistic angel and wondered how he came to be so lucky. If it, too, wasn’t some part of the Ineffable plan that the angel liked to harp on about.

Both had found ways to be _kind_ in a very human sense that fit neither of their roles.

_surely ye'll be your pint-stoup and surely I'll be mine._

Crowley grins at the joy on Warlock’s face as they slip into their favourite local and buy a few pints to sup while they watch the world pass by the front window and let the pounding of the music thunder in echo-chamber chests.

“Mom would go absolutely mad if she knew I was drinking.” They chuckle after their first sip.

“Well, over here you’re legal. That’s all that matters to us, right angel?”

Aziraphale tilts his head a little. “Well, that and that you’re _sensible_ when you drink. Have to remember that you don’t need to try to keep up with us.”

Crowley bit his lip at that, seeing the flash of challenge in Warlock’s eye. “He’s not kidding, you know. Aziraphale’s lost a liver before, its really not worth it when you can just enjoy it.”

Warlock takes another gulp before their glass clatters to the table. “Alright, that I have to hear.”

Crowley and Aziraphale look between each other; the angel in warning and the demon in pure glee. The firelight outside catches flame-red hair and shows a hint of truly happy eyes behind glasses. Aziraphale sighs deeply and sits back in his chair. “Alright, so, we were over in the Americas in the middle of the prohibition-”

“Oh, come on! Yeah you’re ancient but you’re not that old.” Warlock rolls their eyes in annoyance.

Crowley snorts a laugh that almost sends ale out of his nose when Aziraphale makes a sort of chalk-board squeak in the back of his throat. “Be that as it may, let me tell my story. You can decide on the truth of the particulars as you wish. Now, it’s at this time I was spending some time with my friend Ms Parker having some discussions about her husband’s behaviours and I’m afraid we got rather deep into some of the more contraband drinks.”

Crowley leans back in his seat; tuning out the chatter and the music and everything else as he watches his partner regale Warlock with old stories. He thinks of how much it’s possible to love one single ethereal being and how little of it should be his. But it is, and it will be for millennia to come. It’s still overwhelming years later and Crowley doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being in awe of it all.

_We twa hae run about the braes and pou'd the gowans fine. But we've wander'd mony a weary fit sin' auld lang syne._

After a few more drinks the three of them pass back out into the street and follow streets until they find a familiar path that has Aziraphale gently clutching at Crowley’s arm with a smile. “Oh, I remember this place, my dear. There was a _wonderful_ tailor who lived here back in the fifteenth century.”

Crowley stops in his wandering and motions for Warlock to do the same, happy to indulge Aziraphale for now.

“Yeah, makes sense angel. You always did go for the broken down districts.” He teases softly. It’s what makes Aziraphale the angel that most western humans based their stories on. A guardian angel who turned up in the harder areas and made what difference he could just by being there.

“Telling more tales?” Warlock asks archly with a roll of his eyes. Crowley knows he’s trying to goad another story out of Aziraphale. The kid doesn’t _believe_ the stories, but they’re fascinating nonetheless. And it’s still slightly less bullshit than what they hear from their father.

“Maybe we are. You know, the castle being up on the hill like that? Great for defence but not so great for hunting. All the royals used to love that shit-”

“Crowley, language!”

“-that bollocks, so they’d have a whole chunk of land set aside for them to hunt on that the commoners weren’t allowed onto. Now, if you’re an actual demon, and like causing fuss, and the laws of man certainly don’t apply to you, you might find yourself stopping to unleash non-native species onto hunting grounds. You _might_ find yourself in a spot of trouble with the local regent. You might even find yourself helped out of it by someone who’s supposed to be your enemy, and who you thought was hundreds of miles away in Asia looking for early written texts.”

Aziraphale tuts at this. “Too many suppositions, Crowley. You’re telling it wrong. Let me, now-”

Crowley grins and falls into relative silence as Aziraphale tells one of the tales of how he had come to Crowley’s aid a few centuries ago.

_We twa hae paidl’d in the burn, but seas between us braid hae roar’d_

The two of them often had whole oceans separating them across the years. There have been times that midwinters were spent in lonely huts or new year celebrations with mortals whose faces they would not be able to remember in a few decades’ time.

There were years that they were close and yet never close enough. There were years it was a matter of rivers or streams between them.

There were years that it was their own fears alone that separated.

Invariably everything human that either of them did was made all the more special if they could share it together and that had made the last few years something that neither would give away for all the safety in the world.

Seas could roar and oceans could draw chasms between them and yet Aziraphale and Crowley had always been drawn back together, closer and faster each time. It had been pleasant to find that their natural collision actually just led them to settle into the other’s arms. Close enough that nothing but the occasional bickering argument would pass between them again.

_And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie's a hand o' thine, And we'll tak' a right gude-willie waught for auld lang syne!_

The three of them are caught up at the stroke of midnight. The canon being fired at the castle echoes through the streets to cheers and laughter. Aziraphale leans in to kiss Crowley and Warlock politely does Not tell them to get a room.

Before long they’re in the midst of a small group forming a circle and taking up the strains of Auld Lang Syne. Warlock pulls a face as they get past the first couple of verses, entirely lost. Crowley leans in with a smile and leads his old charge through with the smallest of demonic miracles.

At the last verse they cross arms and link hands and Aziraphale can see the pure mischief in Crowley’s face. “Get ready to move, dear boy. We’ll all be heading for the centre.” He warns in Warlock’s ear, knowing that Crowley has no intention of telling the poor thing.

Even Warlock manages a startled laugh as they rush the centre at the end of the song, twisting around each other until they rush away again, facing outwards and into the new year.

Crowley’s face almost hurts from the smiling as he looks to Aziraphale and Warlock; the colours of the fireworks lighting bright faces in the cold night air.

They’ve gained a lot surviving the Apocalypse together and he feels like there’s only going to be more to be thankful for in the future with his heart full to bursting and an angel at his side.

“Happy New Year.” He grins, and it’s almost shy as Aziraphale turns to him practically glowing from within and wishes him the same.

“And _so many_ more.”


End file.
